Prairie Lullaby
by Ooshka
Summary: Western historical AU. In a bid to secure a more settled life for herself and her son, Emma Swan travels to Kansas as the mail-order bride of Liam Jones. Her dreams of a peaceful life are shattered when she finds herself married to his brother Killian, a man who appears to offer her anything but the quiet life she'd dreamed of. Where will this not-so-happy-ending take them?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Firstly, let me say that if you were hoping for another SVM story from me, my sincere apologies for disappointing you. This is me trying something completely different, and I hope some of you will enjoy it anyway.**

**Secondly, this is set in a late-nineteenth century time-period, but there are limitations to the amount of research I'm going to do, so there will be a ton of anachronisms, no doubt. I hope they don't detract too much from your enjoyment.**

**Thirdly, a huge thank-you to the lovely Chocolatecrackle for being my pre-reader and cheerleader for this story. Her support, and willingness to read about characters she knows nothing about, has been very much appreciated!**

**Disclaimer: I make no claim to these characters.**

* * *

_Emma Swan never expected a fairytale. _

_Certainly not from the circumstances she found herself in. Lack of options and her son Henry to support have seen her agree to move to Kansas as the mail-order bride of Liam Jones. But Liam's untimely demise has left her in the care of his brother Killian and nothing is turning out like she thought it would._

_Killian Jones was nobody's idea of hero._

_But he'd try to do what Liam would have wanted. Even if that meant keeping Emma as his own, knowing he was a poor second choice._

_Storybrooke, Kansas, wasn't exactly what it seemed on the outside. Respectable is a relative term when you're living out on the prairie, and people will do what they have to do to survive._

_Thrown together and facing an uncertain future, Emma and Killian must decide if they will find their own kind of happy ending in a strange kind of place._

* * *

Emma sat at the kitchen table and turned the envelope over in her hands. "Are you going to open it?" her son asked, excitedly. Since he'd brought her the post twenty minutes earlier Henry had been itching for her to get on and rip the letter open, but Emma had stalled him, saying she needed to sweep and then lay the fire in the sitting room first, and had sent him outside to fetch more kindling.

It wasn't that she was nervous, but her stomach couldn't seem to settle. She knew this letter would contain the offer she'd clearly been working towards since she had first replied to Liam Jones' advertisement for a wife. At least, she hoped that's what it contained. There was every chance he had merely written to inform her that he was halting their correspondence and would not be contacting her further.

It wouldn't be the first time Emma Swan had been rejected, but she wanted to spare her son the pain of such a letter. Henry had been the driving force behind this plan, anxious for the adventure their journey west would bring. Of course Emma hadn't told him the whole truth; while her marriage to a stranger in Kansas would bring adventure, it was also just about their only hope left.

She'd been supporting Henry on her own since his birth, ten years ago now. It had been a hard road and, for almost all of those years, she'd had to leave Henry in the care of Aunt Regina, who was, in reality, an aunt to neither of them, so that she could live and work as a housekeeper. But now Aunt Regina had died and her boarding house was passing on to the son of a distant cousin, and Henry and Emma needed to find another place to live.

Emma's options were limited, and she had Henry to consider. There were many ways she could sell herself and becoming someone's mail-order bride seemed the most palatable.

At least it had, until this moment when it all became a little too real. She tore open the envelope and read the lines of neat, black handwriting. It was something she'd grown to like about Liam Jones, his handwriting spoke of a man who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take a risk. It made her feel a little more comfortable with the thought of being his bride.

"Well, what's it say Mama?" Henry asked.

She scanned the letter, and took out the train tickets which had been enclosed in the folded paper. "It says that we're going to Kansas, Henry."

"Really?" Henry's eyes were wide with excitement.

"Really, truly. Storybrooke, Kansas, here we come!" Emma hoped that she was doing a good job of mimicking Henry's joy at the journey ahead of them. There was no need, after all, to let him think that this was anything other than the adventure he wanted it to be. She'd spent a lot of years protecting Henry from the reality of just how precarious their position was, and she wasn't going to let anything slip now. Not when they were so close to their escape.

It wasn't the first time Emma had packed up her belongings to leave town, and it didn't take her long to complete the task. She added in a few things that had belonged to Regina, as well. Henry had wondered out loud whether Regina would have wanted them to have her best tablecloth, but Emma assured him that Aunt Regina had left it to them in her will.

She hadn't, of course. Aunt Regina had merely been the proprietor of the boarding house where Emma had worked as a maid, right up until the day she gave birth to Henry on the kitchen floor. She'd been quite proud of her ability to hide her pregnancy, but significantly worried about how her employer would react to the sudden arrival of a baby.

Regina had, fortunately, been rather swayed by the helpless newborn and had allowed Emma to stay as she recovered, and had then offered to mind Henry while Emma looked elsewhere for employment, her job as a maid having been filled by a local girl while Emma recuperated in bed.

Regina had arranged a position as housekeeper with a Dr Hopper, and agreed that she would keep Henry for Emma until she could send for him.

But that had never happened, and it was only Regina's failing health which had brought Emma back. She had been trying, mostly unsuccessfully, for all of that time to save enough money to start her own business and allow her to finally have a life with her son. But Henry had, to all intents and purposes, been brought up by Regina rather than Emma and it wasn't something she could change now.

So if she wanted to take a few linens, she was going to take a few linens, move to Kansas and, finally, have her son all to herself.

Bags packed they set off on the long journey. Henry was excited by the prospect of the train, even after they'd changed trains more than once. Emma's enthusiasm had long since waned. She was constantly wary, watching all the people around them and evaluating whether any of them meant her harm. It was, she thought, a nasty habit, but a hard one to break all the same.

She tried to tune back into the conversation Henry had begun. "Perhaps we'll see real Indians. Like in my book!" He held up his treasured collection of cowboy stories.

"Perhaps," Emma replied, as they settled into their seats. She rather hoped not, however. The less excitement on their journey, the better, as far as she was concerned.

"Do you think he's killed any Indians?" Henry asked.

"Who?"

"Mr Jones." Henry looked over at her expectantly.

"I don't think so, Henry."

Henry looked thoughtful for a moment. "Perhaps his brother?"

"Oh." Emma didn't really feel qualified to comment on Liam Jones' brother. All that had been mentioned about him in the letters she'd received was that he lived on the farm as well and was younger than Liam Jones was.

"I think," she said, slowly, realising that Henry was still waiting for a reply. "That they're both more likely farmers, than cowboys."

"I suppose so, Mama." Henry sounded a little sad at that and Emma realised that she may have made a mistake in buying Henry that book. It had no doubt made the Western states sound a lot more romantic than she suspected they were going to be. But she'd wanted share something with him, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Emma sighed, and turned to look out the window at the platform filled with other passengers. In her head she counted out the money contained in the small purse she carried and considered how much she'd allow for meals at each remaining stop along the way. She didn't want to eat into her funds any faster than she had need to; there was no telling when she'd require something for emergencies.

Gazing at the people walking past the train Emma tried very hard to stop the familiar, gnawing worry in the pit of her stomach as she contemplated her future, and failed.

She was going to be someone's wife. She was going to be Mrs Liam Jones. She was going to have nothing to worry about and all the bad things that had happened in her life wouldn't matter anymore.

She repeated that a few times, took a deep breath, and then smiled over at Henry who, she realised, had been watching her as she calmed herself. It was disconcerting how old he looked sometimes, when he looked at her like he was the parent and she was the child. It broke her heart to realise that, although she'd done her best to shelter him from the harsh realities of the world, she still hadn't been able to give him the childhood he'd deserved.

Emma tried to think of something to say, to lighten the mood. But nothing sprang to mind. And then they were interrupted by a woman's voice, "Excuse me, but may I ask you a very delicate question?"

Emma turned to see a strikingly attractive woman addressing her. The woman was petite, with glossy dark hair and cornflower blue eyes and the most beautiful porcelain skin. Her ringlets gave her the appearance of one of the china dolls Emma had only ever seen in stores, but never owned.

"Of course," Emma replied, and the woman rewarded her with a wide smile.

"I've been reliably informed by the porter that you are travelling to Kansas…to Storybrooke, Kansas?" the woman asked.

"Yes, that's right."

"Good!" the woman said, sitting down next to Henry. "I'm going there too, only my chaperone has been taken ill. I noticed that you were in the company of such a handsome and capable gentlemen, and I hoped that he would take pity on a poor damsel in distress and escort me the rest of the way as well."

Henry stared open-mouthed at the woman as he realised she was speaking about him. "I'm Mary Margaret Blanchard," she said, offering her hand first to Henry, who shook it, while still sporting a dazed look, and then to Emma.

"I'm Emma Swan, and this is my son Henry."

"Well, I'm charmed to meet you both!" Miss Blanchard trilled.

Emma surveyed the carriage's new occupant. Her dress was a fine pale green silk, far too clean for her to have travelled far. Emma thought that under her bright smile and faultless manners Mary Margaret was probably as nervous as Emma was herself. She really hoped that Henry didn't bring up the Indians again.

"What takes you to Storybrooke?" Emma inquired, as the train started up again.

"I'm to be the new schoolmistress," Miss Blanchard said proudly. "Apparently the last one left and I just thought…why not?" She shrugged a little. Emma thought there was a story there, but decided not to press Miss Blanchard for it. She had enough problems of her own without dealing with other people's.

"And you and Henry? You have family there?" Miss Blanchard asked, as the train's speed increased and the vista changed to the flat, dry landscape that would mark the rest of their journey.

"I'm to be married," Emma said simply, hoping that would suffice. But Henry chose that moment to find his voice again. "Mama answered an advertisement," he said, proudly. "She's going to meet the man who's been writing to her, and they'll be married. And I'll learn to shoot a gun and fish and then one day, I'll get a baby brother, or sister. It's going to be a great adventure!" He hugged his book tightly to his chest while Emma worried about the brother or sister part of the story. The desire for a sibling wasn't a notion he'd brought up previously and it wasn't something that Emma particularly wanted to dwell on.

Miss Blanchard's smile remained frozen to her face for just a few seconds longer than was natural, and then she composed herself. "Well," she said. "That is going to be quite the adventure. I hope you'll still have time to come to school."

Henry nodded solemnly. "Yes, ma'am."

"And as for you, Mrs Swan." Miss Blanchard turned to face Emma, her blue eyes shining. "I hope you find the man of your dreams waiting for you."

"I…yes." Emma was lost for words. She didn't dare contemplate anything as foolish as finding romantic love in Storybrooke. A place to call home, a safe place, for Henry and for herself, that was what she desired above all else.

The rest was just a fairy tale.

"Anyone hungry?" Miss Blanchard asked, delving into her bag. "I have sandwiches!"

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Many thanks for all the reviews, follows and favourites the first chapter of this story has gathered. I hope you all enjoy the second chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.**

Killian Jones raised his head off the table and groaned. The light that seeped under the door of the small cabin seemed unusually bright and he instantly regretted drinking as much whiskey as he had the previous night. But it had been his own private wake for his brother Liam so he'd been able to justify finishing the bottle, and starting the next one. At the time, it had seemed entirely appropriate.

Now, however, it seemed like a bloody foolish idea. Not only had he lost the morning and no work had been done but there was something niggling at the back of his mind. Something he was supposed to do.

And then it hit him with a cold wave of dread. Today was the day she arrived. Bloody Liam! Killian couldn't decide what, currently, annoyed him the more; the fact that Liam had decided, without telling him first, to advertise for a bride, or the fact that Liam had subsequently got himself killed by a random lightning strike.

It wasn't that Killian couldn't understand the desire for female companionship; he could certainly see the advantages of having a woman in your bed every night. But a wife just seemed like a rather substantial and permanent addition to their lives and, right then, the last thing they needed were any additions. They were struggling enough as it was.

No, he realised. Not they. It wasn't him and Liam anymore. It was just him. And he'd have to do something about the woman.

He had a plan, a tentative one at any rate. One he almost hoped wouldn't work out. And, he reminded himself, as he tightened the straps on the brace which held the hook that had replaced his left hand, it was highly unlikely it would come to fruition. No, the woman would arrive, and leave again, and he'd still have the problems he had before, but at least he wouldn't have any new ones.

Status quo was nothing to be sniffed at.

He stood up and stretched, trying to get a bearing on exactly how late in the day it was. The train should be arriving around two o'clock…at least that was what her last letter had said. The one which had arrived the morning after his brother's death.

He glanced over at where it lay on the table, next to the half-drunk bottle from the night before. Emma Swan, for that was the woman's name, had sent Liam a rather blunt and precise account of the journey she was about to undertake to reach him. It was hardly Killian's idea of a courtship; it all seemed so cold, so business-like. But Liam had reasoned that finding a wife in this god-forsaken little town was unlikely to be an easy task and, for their farm to survive, they needed some extra help.

And this woman came with a son. A ten year old son who would be already able to do some odd-jobs around the place. This way, Liam had explained, when he'd finally confessed to Killian what he'd been up to, they'd kill two birds with one stone.

Killian wasn't sure that he really liked the idea of being replaced with a ten year old, but he was hardly in a position to argue, was he? Not these days. Not since his unfortunate…incident. Not since he'd been left crippled and useless and he could see the pity and dismay in Liam's eyes every time he looked at him. Not since he'd become such an angry shell of a person that Liam had obviously decided that he was better off with a woman he'd never met and her boy.

Killian sighed. It was no good blaming Liam. What's done was done. The woman...Emma, he reminded himself. Emma Swan would be here soon, and he still had a morning's worth of work to cram into the short space of time before that happened.

As it was, he could see the train departing before he arrived in the main street of Storybrooke. The place was basically only a main street, of course. Just a collection of wooden buildings alongside a dirt road and a railway track.

He and Liam had craved adventure, had wanted to see the world. He hadn't quite expected to end up trading one small town for another. Sure the landscape was different, but the people…well. People were the same wherever you went and Killian didn't have much time for any of them.

He'd had to complete a less than pleasant errand before collecting the woman from the train, which made him even later to meet her. Still, it would hardly matter, if, as he hoped, the news of Liam's death sent her back to where she'd come from on the next train out of Storybrooke. Poor timekeeping on his part was unlikely to be the thing she found most disappointing about her, now, rather pointless journey.

That thought cheered him up, slightly, as he pulled the wagon up to a halt near the platform and dismounted, before hitching the horses, very carefully, to the nearby post. He double checked that they were secure, and then made his way up the steps to survey the passengers who'd alighted from the train.

He could spot her almost immediately. Her green dress stood out amongst the dusty garb the other travellers wore. She had bent her head of fine, dark curls and was talking to a boy with dark hair who was, no doubt, her son.

Well, Killian had to admit, she wasn't bad looking. She had a sweet face and laughed a lot and looked nothing like the rather stern looking blonde woman who was standing nearby, watching her interact with the boy.

But then, just as Killian approached the steps to the platform, something rather odd happened. Mr Gold and David Nolan, the sheriff, appeared from the opposite end and spoke briefly to the woman who then collected her belongings and disappeared with them, with only the briefest of waves over her shoulder, leaving her son alone with the stern woman who looked like she'd never smiled in her life.

It was hardly motherly behaviour. He almost felt sorry for the lad, but, honestly, if his mother was that fickle maybe he would be better off abandoned. And then Killian felt indignation rising on Liam's behalf. She was, after all, supposed to be Liam's bride, and he'd paid for her ticket out here. He hadn't intended his investment to immediately decide to sport herself with Gold and Nolan.

He hesitated on the steps to the platform, unsure of what to do next. If the woman had gone, then, surely, he did not need to continue any further. He had no responsibility for the boy, not really. Perhaps his mother might come back and claim him later on, like a hatbox she'd left in a cloakroom. Killian took one step backwards, and then, after a pause, lifted his foot to take another one.

But then the stern woman turned to look in his direction, and he realised that she wasn't just stern she was rather attractive as well, but would be more so if she would just stop frowning for five bloody minutes and, at the same time, the boy said "Is that him, Mama?"

Killian was poised, mid-step, as the woman fixed her sea-green gaze on him and he felt at a distinct disadvantage. He had, after all, only moments before been attempting to depart the scene altogether and abandon the boy, who, it must now be supposed was actually this woman's son, to whatever fate had in store for him.

It wasn't exactly the way Liam would have wanted their first encounter to go.

"Mrs Swan?" he enquired, stepping forward again and trying to get himself back on a more equal footing. With that in mind, he was careful to keep his left hand hidden behind his back. No need to scare either of them outright, was there?

At least, he liked to pretend that. He liked to pretend that he'd given up on vanity after the incident that had caused his injury. Liked to think that it wasn't because he was terrified her stern gaze would soften to one of pity and embarrassment just because he was missing a hand.

"Yes." She took a faltering step towards him. "Mr Jones?" Her frown deepened and her eyes raked over his face. Killian had no idea if Liam had ever sent the woman a photograph of himself or if this was the first time she was going to see him. First time she _had been_ going to see Liam, Killian corrected in his head.

He still wasn't used to all the tenses being different.

"Killian," he replied, trying out a smile on her, to see if she'd reciprocate. "Killian Jones. Not Liam."

"Oh." Her frown relaxed a little, but there was still no hint of a smile. "You're his brother."

Killian couldn't help but notice the disappointment in her voice as she said that. And while he knew, logically, that it stemmed from her believing that the man she'd come to marry had sent his brother to collect her in his stead, it was hard not to take it personally. Still, he could hardly blame her. He'd never been able to hold a candle to Liam, and he knew it.

He might be many things, but self-deluded he wasn't.

"I am," Killian agreed, forgetting for a moment that he should have used the word 'was' instead.

"Very well," Emma Swan said, to no one in particular. She'd stopped looking at Killian and her eyes drifted over the few dusty wooden buildings that made up the town, as though she was making up her mind about something.

Killian followed her gaze wondering what it was she was trying to figure out. Liam was the one who'd been set for the adventure that was supposedly found out on these prairies; Killian hadn't really questioned him at the time. Now, it was just him and this woman who'd come here for her own reasons. Perhaps she'd thought it would be an adventure too.

She turned back to Killian and gave him a weak attempt at a smile. "Perhaps, Mr Jones, if you could see to helping us with our luggage we can be off to meet…the other Mr Jones." She was frowning again by the end of the sentence and the boy, who'd been off to the side regarding Killian curiously while their exchange had taken place, had now picked up a small case and moved closer to his mother. Without looking in the boy's direction, she raised her hand a little and he took it.

It struck him, suddenly, that the frown that marred her features was most likely a mask she was wearing. It was undeniable that she was pretty; some of her hair had come loose from her bonnet and it swirled about her head like strands of gold. Her features were even and pleasant and she held her head high, but her eyes spoke of the turmoil beneath the surface. She was putting on a good show, but she was struggling all the same.

Killian knew how she felt. He realised it was time to come clean, on more than one matter. "I would endeavour to help you, Mrs Swan, but I am afraid I am compromised in that department." He moved his left hand from behind his back and braced, waiting for the outpouring of embarrassment and sympathy on Emma Swan's part.

It didn't come. The boy's eyes went a little wider but Mrs Swan stayed stock-still. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realise."

"I'll see if there's a porter…or someone…" Killian said, ducking his head so he didn't have to meet her gaze. It wasn't the worst look he'd ever received, but, for reasons he wasn't really sure about himself, he didn't like the idea of this woman looking at him like, well. Like a cripple.

"No, it's fine," she said. "We can manage. Henry, pass that to Mr Jones." The boy held out the case he was holding, as well as the book he'd clutched the whole time, and Killian took it with his good hand. Henry was staring much more openly at Killian's hook, but at least he didn't shrink back in fear of being impaled.

That was a start.

"Did Indians do that?" the boy asked, curiously.

"No. It was an accident. It was…my fault." Better to own up to it, he thought. The boy just nodded, the woman was too busy with her baggage to pay much attention.

She directed Henry to take one end of their trunk, and then she picked up the other, also managing her own small bag, and then, awkwardly, they began to make their way along the platform. The boy was clearly struggling with his end of the trunk and Killian had a sudden urge to prove that he wasn't as crippled as she seemed to think, so he motioned for them to stop and there was an awkward moment where positions were swapped as he passed Henry's belongings back to him and tried to get Mrs Swan to give up her own bag, which she refused to do, before he finally picked up the end of the trunk in his one good hand and they all made their way down the steps to where the wagon was hitched.

Killian was aware of a few curious glances from the people milling about, but it wasn't anything he wasn't used to. Some people in town most likely knew that Liam had been expecting the arrival of his new bride. No doubt they were all counting themselves lucky that they weren't in her situation. Perhaps it might have better if she'd followed her fellow passenger and left with Nolan and Gold rather than being stuck with him.

And just having that thought, Killian realised, was a testament to how dark his thoughts currently were.

And when they reached the wagon he was reminded, sharply, of the other part of his confession. Mrs Swan had been concentrating on the baggage but Henry dropped his bag abruptly and pointed to the plain wooden coffin that Killian had collected from the undertaker prior to arriving at the station. Killian set down the end of the trunk and took a deep breath.

"Ah," he said, turning to look at Mrs Swan, who'd put her end of the trunk down now as well. "That would, unfortunately, be Liam."

He could acknowledge that fact, he discovered, without the terrible burning pain in his chest that accompanied a sentence containing the words 'Liam' and 'dead', but it didn't make it any easier when he saw the look that crossed Mrs Swan's face. She paled, noticeably, and her eyes went wide for just a moment as her mouth opened, almost involuntarily it seemed. He wondered if she would shriek or cry out or faint or do any of those things that silly women did on hearing bad news and he wondered what he would do if she did. He didn't want to comfort her while she expressed all the pain that he'd been trying so hard to forget. The drink had helped, at least for a while, but the rest of the time it was all he could do to keep from sinking to the ground with a great howl of despair.

Emma Swan was looking at him sharply, he realised, while the boy still stared at the coffin. "Liam Jones?" she asked, as though he might have the body of another Liam just lying around.

"Aye."

"Oh." Whatever reaction he'd thought she'd have, it wasn't that. She wasn't even shocked by the news. It was almost as if she'd been expecting it.

Killian was so surprised that he stared at her in wonder for a moment, forgetting what he was supposed to say next. This was the make or break moment, the one where he played all his cards and it either went his way, or it didn't, in which case he could walk away relieved and no worse off than he was now.

But this woman who expected to come to town to find her supposed husband gone; this wasn't part of any scenario he'd played out in his head.

"How?" she asked, after a while.

"Lightning strike. Just…one of those things." It was senseless and that was what tore at Killian the most. It could have struck anyone, at any time, and it had somehow managed to hit Liam. But it should have been him. He should have been the one in the field.

But he was useless with one hand. And his uselessness had cost his brother his life.

He took a deep breath and began on his speech, the one he'd tried to formulate the night before in that small space of time before the drink made his thoughts slow and his mood black. "I realise that you have travelled a long way expecting to begin a new life as someone's bride. And, although I'm sure Liam would want to be taken care of and for me to…well, I am not yet married and…uh…" He trailed off, unable to quite find the words to tell Mrs Swan that he would take his brother's place.

Killian was certain that it was entirely possible that Liam would have expected him to make her such an offer, had Liam given any thought to the possibility of his potential sudden demise. But even though he knew that it would in some way appease the ghost of his brother, Killian couldn't bring himself to say it outright and watch her search for the words to tell him it was an offer she wouldn't be accepting. He took a deep breath and continued; his eyes fixed on a spot near Mrs Swan's feet. "I won't hold you to the arrangement you had with my brother." He briefly lifted his left arm even though the gesture was probably redundant. She'd already seen it, after all. "So if you wish to stay in town until you can make your way back to your home, then I'll understand."

Killian watched her face carefully, but it was difficult to tell what she was thinking. "There's a boarding house, and probably another train in a few days. I just…" He paused. "I'm afraid I won't exactly be able to help you out. Financially, so to speak."

He breathed a sigh of relief. He'd done it, laid it all out for her. Now all that remained was for her to ask exactly where the boarding house was and he'd help carry their luggage to the door. Well, as much as he was able to help.

Which wasn't much really.

Mrs Swan had retreated into her head again, probably trying to give the appearance of actually considering the other alternative to high-tailing it out of Storybrooke and back to where she came from.

In the meantime the boy approached him again and Killian took a good look at him for the first time. He seemed a little small for his age. He was pale like his mother, but where her colouring was fair, the boy had both dark hair and eyes. No doubt inherited from his father.

It occurred to Killian that he had absolutely no idea of the circumstances under which she'd become a widow, and how long ago it had happened. Certainly she and the boy were not in the least horrified by the presence of Liam's coffin in his wagon. Perhaps she had only just lost him?

But if that was the case, running to the other side of the country seemed an extreme reaction. Didn't she have people who should be looking after her, who would help her? Killian was struck with the sobering thought that coming here, to Liam, was the act of a woman who didn't have a lot of other choices. Returning to that life might not be an option she was willing to entertain.

He began to have a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Will you teach me to fish?" the boy asked, suddenly.

"Aye. If you want," Killian answered, in an off-hand manner. He was still waiting on something, anything, from Mrs Swan. Anything that might give away what she was thinking would be most welcome about now.

"And ride?"

"Well…perhaps, lad."

The boy smiled at that. "I knew it," he said. "I knew that you could teach me to be a real cowboy. Like in my book." He nodded to the large, tattered volume that held in his hands.

"Well. There aren't many cowboys here, lad," Killian said, breaking the news as gently as he could.

"Why?"

"No cattle."

"Oh." The boy was very still and quiet for a moment. His reaction to bad news, so like his mother's, made Killian almost wince. He didn't like the fact he'd disappointed them both so thoroughly within minutes of their first meeting. But then, unlike his mother, his face broke out into a smile again. "But we can still do those other things, can't we?"

"I suppose so." Killian felt quite at ease making promises to the boy because, really, he'd never get the chance to keep them. The longer Henry's mother's silence continued, the more certain Killian felt that she was busy working out how best to extricate herself from his company.

He felt a little melancholy at that thought. She was an odd woman, but an intriguing one all the same. He found himself wishing that Liam had shared more about the contents of her letters, but suspected Liam's reticence was on account of believing that Killian wouldn't take the news about the strange courtship well. That he wouldn't like the idea of Liam getting himself a new family because the old one was so clearly bloody defective.

And now here she was, and she was an enigma to him and it wasn't something he was used to because most people showed plainly on their faces exactly what they thought of him they minute they met him.

"Mama, can we go with Mr Jones now?" Henry asked, turning back to Mrs Swan. "I want to learn to ride today."

Killian looked over at Mrs Swan, whose eyes had been on anywhere but him while she pondered her fate. "Yes," she said, simply. "Yes, I will take you up on your kind offer, Mr Jones."

"My…offer?" He wondered if the riding lessons were to be completed before she disappeared on the first train east.

"I will marry you." Her eyes locked onto his and he thought he could see her resolve bursting through their sea-green depths. Such grim determination to be his bride wasn't the reaction he'd expected.

"Aye," he said, a little more subdued in his response than she'd probably been hoping for. "Let's load these things on the wagon then."

He helped them haul their trunk and cases onto the wagon beside Liam's coffin, then held out his hand to help Emma up onto the front. She took it and then paused and gave him a small, stiff smile, before clambering up. He unhitched the horses feeling a lead weight descending into his abdomen.

This was everything he had dreaded, and more. When he had assumed that the bride would turn heel and flee he had been picturing…well, someone else entirely. But this creature, this alluring stranger who had now agreed to marry him, this was something altogether different.

She'd picked him because she had no choice, because she was in a strange place with no way of returning home and the only way on was forward. She'd picked him because she had a son and she needed a home for the boy.

She'd picked him, and he'd been a poor second choice for his brother Liam. It wasn't the first time it had been so. And it was the reason why Killian thought he felt so down in the mouth now. She'd come here expecting a whole man, a good man, a man who promised her the world. She'd ended up with Killian Jones. It was a raw deal.

But what was at the heart of his dismay, and which he was reluctant to admit to even himself, was that he wanted her to pick him because she wanted him. And now she never would.

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thanks to everyone for the reviews, follows and favourites for this story. This is a new fandom for me, and it's been lovely to have such a great response to the story.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the recognisable characters.**

She'd come too far to turn back now.

That thought was foremost in Emma Swan's mind as the train finally pulled into the little station at Storybrooke. She was a world away from Boston, and there was no going back.

The idea was both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. This was a new start, for her and for Henry. New place, new lives, new everything. At least, that was the plan. Despite her outward optimism Emma suspected, quite strongly, that there would be limits to how far she could go towards carving out a new existence and that she'd never quite rid of herself of the emptiness she felt deep within her being.

She pushed such thoughts away though. Miss Blanchard had been a welcome distraction for Henry on this last leg of their journey, and she had indulgently allowed him to tell her all about his book of cowboy stories, even reading aloud his favourite passages. Emma was glad that Henry would have at least one familiar face when they got to Storybrooke; everything else was going to be strange. Top of the list of strange things would be Henry having a male presence in his life for the first time.

She very much hoped that Liam Jones hadn't been lying when he'd said that he was happy to be a father to someone else's son.

Arriving in Storybrooke had seemed almost unreal. She'd dreamt of the place for so long, planned for this moment and then, there she was, standing on a wooden platform, looking at a bunch of dusty buildings and waiting on a man who was supposed to make her life better.

She was definitely having second thoughts.

Miss Blanchard, however, was not. She was still as full of the joys of life as she had been when she'd boarded their train. Emma wished, deeply, that she could be as carefree as their companion was, that she could still think of this as one big adventure. But she couldn't, not until things were settled, until she knew that Liam Jones would come through for her and not let her down as had happened so many other times in her twenty eight years on earth.

The first thing Liam Jones did to let her down was not actually show up to collect her. The second thing he did to let her down was to die before she arrived.

At first, she'd been intrigued by the presence of Liam's brother in his place. The brother, Killian, wasn't what she'd expected at all. The descriptions of him in Liam's letters had been scant, with only a few remarks about how he wasn't ready to strike out on his own yet.

Emma had supposed him a youth, perhaps not much older than Henry. She'd even, in her more fanciful moments, wondered whether, if that was the case and there was such a difference in age between Liam and Killian, the younger brother might actually be an illegitimate offspring instead.

For that indiscretion, of course, Emma was hardly likely to condemn Liam Jones. No, she'd been prepared to act like a mother towards Killian and hope that he was willing to welcome her into the family as well.

She just hadn't expected his welcome to seem so…forced. She'd watched Miss Blanchard leave with the denizens of the town who had arrived to welcome their new schoolmistress. Sheriff Nolan, especially, had been quite enthusiastic in greeting Miss Blanchard.

But when Emma had come face to face with Killian Jones for the first time he'd been trying to sneak away without her seeing him. It was hardly an auspicious start. He didn't even seem ashamed of the fact he'd tried to leave her and Henry at the station. It was clear that despite the wide smile he'd given her, he wasn't particularly interested in spending time with his brother's new wife.

It shouldn't have mattered, after all, because she'd come here to marry his brother. But she had never contemplated finding Killian not only far from being the youth she imagined, but actually handsome.

It confused her, and Emma didn't really like being confused. She'd made her plans, set her course, and she wasn't going to be swayed by the man with the dark hair and deep blue eyes, whose short beard and strong jaw showed him to be anything but a youth. She simply wasn't that kind of person. It was fine for women like Miss Blanchard to smile and sigh and preen at the first sign of male attention, but Emma was different. She knew her happy ending wasn't going to come from a lover's embrace but from a practical arrangement and a lot of hard work.

Because, after all, it wasn't just her happy ending. It was Henry's too.

And then everything had become even more confusing. She'd realised that he'd been hiding his hand from her as soon as he revealed the hook, and a few things made more sense. And then the final reveal of Liam's coffin occurred and everything made much less sense.

Why did everyone just leave her?

And somewhere in all that confusion, sometime when she'd realised that Henry still thought he was getting his happy ending, she ended up telling the man she thought she'd be a mother to that she would marry him.

There was no going back on that now. By the time all three of them were sitting at the front of the wagon that contained Liam Jones' coffin and her baggage she felt so panicked she almost couldn't breathe. She desperately wanted someone to put their arms around her and say that it was going to be alright, that she'd made the right decision, or, at the least, that she'd made the best decision she could at the time.

But no one was going to do that. It wasn't something she'd ever had before, and it was silly to crave it now. As a foundling and an orphan she'd moved from orphanage to prospective new home and back again several times without anyone ever showing her much in the way of affection. She was always just a problem to be solved, not a little girl who wanted, more than anything, someone who would hug her and tell her she was loved.

She'd grown out of believing it would ever happen. And the fact, she told herself, that she could feel the heat of Killian Jones' leg where it was pressed up against hers so keenly was simply because they were sitting so close in the wagon. The fact that she wanted him to reach out and touch her was clearly because she was a little lost at the moment, in a strange place with a strange man. She'd get past this, too. She didn't really need him to show all that much affection, as long as he wasn't, well, the opposite of affectionate.

That was a whole other scenario that didn't bear thinking about.

The wagon hit a hole in the dusty road and Emma slid sideways, closer to Mr Jones. Without thinking she put out her hand to grasp at his arm and he snatched it away from her as if he was afraid she might burn him.

The hurt came before she had a chance to talk herself out of it, to remind herself that Killian Jones was probably no more pleased with the fact he was stuck with her than the minister and his wife who'd once taken her into their home had been. In that case her carers had decided immediately that her fearful silence and watchful gaze must be a sign of the devil, prompting them to begin their attempt to beat it out of her. This new relationship was nothing different to what she'd experienced before and she would weather it just the same.

Hopefully there wouldn't even be any beatings, she thought ruefully.

Emma turned her attention to Henry instead. He was seated on the other side of her, his book balanced on his lap. She gave his arm a squeeze and, at least, he didn't jerk away, although he did turn and give her a curious look. Emma sighed; she wished she had an easy relationship with Henry but she always felt on tenterhooks around him, as though she was only playing at being his mother and he might decide to halt the game at any time. The years they'd spent living apart, despite the regular visits she'd made to Regina's, meant they were still figuring each other out.

Emma was unsure about a lot when it came to Henry, although she was damn certain that no one was going to be beating the devil out of him anytime soon. He was her world, he had to be. Everything would be fine as long as she had Henry.

It was only when she glanced around again, at the dusty road and the few trees that she noticed that when she had grabbed Mr Jones' arm, it had been his left one, the one with the hook. She realised that perhaps his reaction had less to do with her and more to do with his own embarrassment, but it wasn't exactly something she could ask him about outright. And they were stopping now, anyway.

The wagon had pulled up outside a small, wooden church and she watched as Mr Jones jumped down before hitching the horses. "Are you ready?" he called up to her, but he didn't extend a hand to help her down.

"For?"

He gave her a confused look. "Back there, when you agreed…I thought…" He turned away from Emma and glanced at the church, and she caught his meaning.

"Now?" It wasn't that she wanted time to prepare for a wedding. The ceremony itself hardly mattered, after all. Even if she'd been marrying his brother she wasn't going to be celebrating the love between two people so much as entering into a business relationship with a partner she'd only just met.

But still. It seemed a little rushed to come here straight from the station.

"Aye, well I thought you wouldn't want to…stay. At the farm. With me. Without…" Mr Jones trailed off again. Emma nodded, he was thinking of what was decent. That was something.

"Plus, two birds with one stone," he added, pointing at the coffin in the back of the wagon.

"I'm so glad to be counted one of your birds," Emma said, without thinking. But then she looked at Mr Jones, whose blue eyes were looking at her curiously. She was immediately ashamed. She knew far better than to let her tongue loose, especially when she had just met someone. Especially when that someone was about to become her husband.

She was going to scare him off if she wasn't careful. And she really didn't fancy being abandoned at a church in the middle of, well, nowhere. Not if her time in the minister's house had been any indication of what Christian charity was like.

She covered her embarrassment by carefully climbing down from the wagon and brushing off her dress. It was dusty from travelling, but it wasn't as though she had anything better to change into, even if she had been given the time. This was her only good dress.

Henry, meanwhile, had scrambled down and was looking about him curiously. "Are we going to a funeral now, Mama?" he asked, no doubt memories of Regina's rather sombre service still fresh in his mind.

"Something like that." Emma watched as, without glancing at her, Mr Jones disappeared into the interior of the church. She wondered if she was supposed to follow him, but he was back in a moment with a minister following him.

Emma viewed their approach warily. Neither man was looking at her, or Henry, as they stared intently at the coffin. "We'd better get him down then," the minister said, and she watched as Mr Jones slowly raised his left arm up for the minister to see.

The minister sighed, so loudly that Emma could hear from where she was standing a little distance from the pair. The man's reaction annoyed her greatly but there wasn't anything that could be done about it. Mr Jones was probably used to it.

The minister was heading back towards the church when he pulled up abruptly in front of Emma. "You're the bride?" he asked.

"I am," she confirmed. "Emma Swan."

"Reverend Herman," he replied and then he looked from her, back to Mr Jones, who was standing staring at the ground and looking deeply uncomfortable, but he didn't say anything. He just walked off.

Emma felt a little out of sorts now. One look at Mr Jones made it plain just how much pain he was in. She could only imagine, having never had any close relatives herself, how it felt to face the prospect of burying one.

She wanted to say something, but simply didn't have the words. Any comfort she'd ever received in her own life, and most of the things she'd told herself in the dark hours before the dawn, had been about how everything would be better if she just kept on working hard and hoping for the best.

Hard work and forlorn hope did not bring someone back from the dead.

Henry, meanwhile, had been scuffing in the dirt with the toe of his boot while he watched the assembled adults. In the end he was the one who broke the silence, by slowly making his way over to Mr Jones and announcing, clearly, "I can help…if you want?"

Emma watched as Mr Jones lifted his eyes slowly from the dirt to look at Henry, squinting at him in the sunshine. He was frowning, and for an awful moment Emma thought that he might brush off Henry's offer, or tell him not to be so silly.

In the end he nodded. "Aye. That's appreciated, lad." Then he went back to staring at the ground. Henry looked over at her, probably checking that he'd done the right thing, and she gave him a smile, resisting the urge to go over and hug him instead. She wondered, idly, if that was the reason she'd so desired to comfort Mr Jones, that she had spent so many years unable to comfort her own son that she now had a surfeit of maternal emotion.

Although, if she was honest, she didn't really feel maternal towards Mr Jones. Maybe she was just feeling sorry for the man, having to go through life with only one hand. Emma realised it was ridiculous to even entertain thoughts of consoling this man who barely knew her and didn't seem at all comfortable in her presence. She turned her gaze to the one solitary tree in front of the church and tried to think of something else.

Reverend Herman exited the church again, this time with a youth of about 17 or 18 years following him. The boy jumped up onto the wagon and took one end of the coffin, Mr Jones took the other end with his good hand and, with Henry's help and a lot of pushing back and forth that looked ungainly and made Emma fear that they and the coffin would end up in an undignified heap on the ground, they managed to unload their burden and begin carrying it towards the church.

The boy that Reverend Herman had brought out was off-hand about his task and, even with the use of two hands, he let his end of the coffin sway and bounce in a way that made Mr Jones wince several times while he struggled to hold up the other end one-handed, with Henry performing an odd little dance alongside, occasionally reaching out a hand to steady its progress. The Reverend trudged along behind and Emma followed at the back as they rounded the church and made their way to a freshly-dug grave set beside a few other plain wooden crosses.

Without any ceremony the boy dropped his end of the coffin into the grave, leaving Mr Jones little choice but to do the same. The sound of the wood hitting the hard earth below echoed for a moment and then the voice of Reverend Herman started up, intoning words that Emma didn't care to pay much attention to. She was too busy watching Mr Jones and his silent contemplation of the grave.

This really hadn't been the way she'd expected to spend her first day in Storybrooke. Of all the intimate moments she'd expected to share with a new husband, watching him bury his brother wasn't one of them. Although, strictly speaking, the husband she'd thought she'd have was the one being buried.

And now she was left feeling like an interloper into someone else's family. She'd had that feeling before, of course. Every time the orphanage had tried to place her with someone she'd made an attempt to adjust to a new family, a new way of life. Until, eventually, she'd figured out that it didn't work; none of them really wanted her. So she gave up trying to be what they wanted and simply worked hard to project as blank a canvas as possible, hoping that she would cause no offence.

She still did, of course. Sometimes you just simply couldn't win no matter how well you thought you knew the rules.

Emma watched Mr Jones and recognised that he was performing the same trick as she had often done. Certainly she could see the pain and grief cross his face as the Reverend began to speak, but, by the time he dropped a handful of earth onto the lid of the plain wooden coffin there was nothing in his dark, handsome features save a blank mask that did not show anything of his current state of mind. He might as well have been standing on any street corner rather than over his brother's grave.

Emma had been deeply interested in watching this process as it took place; it wasn't often she got to see it from the outside. She'd been so mesmerised that it took her a moment to notice that Mr Jones had turned his gaze in her direction and she realised that she had been caught out staring at him. There was a tense moment when it seemed to be a contest as to who would look away first, before Emma noticed that Henry was showing perhaps a little too much curiosity about the grave and she felt compelled to walk over and take his hand before he fell in.

"It's not like Aunt Regina's," Henry said, as Emma pulled him a little closer to her side. She wasn't entirely sure if he was talking about the coffin or the ceremony in general. Either way, he was correct. Regina's funeral had certainly been full of more pomp and circumstance.

"It's just…different. Out here," Emma murmured. It wasn't so much the location as, perhaps, the wealth of the person they were burying that made the difference, but Emma didn't like to put the idea in Henry's head that his circumstances had diminished on account of Regina's death. It irked Emma, and always had, that Regina had been the one to care for and nurture Henry when Emma wasn't able to, but she couldn't deny that without Regina in their lives, she and Henry would have been a lot worse off.

"I like it," Henry said, emphatically. "I'm happy we're here, Mama."

"Well. That's good." Emma returned Henry's smile and marvelled at how he'd managed to adapt so quickly to his entire world being turned upside down. But then she was often surprised at the things Henry did and the fact that someone she had birthed could be so different from herself; while Emma counted herself as adaptable, she was often far from cheerful about it. Maybe it might have been different if she had raised him alone, but Emma often felt like Henry was some kind of stranger who she was only just beginning to understand.

Still, she felt she understood him a little better than she did Mr Jones who was deep in conversation with the Reverend. "Mrs Swan?" he called over. "Are you ready?"

Emma took a deep breath and pasted on her best pleased-to-be-here face. "Yes," she called back, casting a quick glance at Henry, who squeezed her hand in reply. She hadn't realised he'd picked up on her nerves and she really hoped they weren't obvious to Mr Jones. The last thing she needed right now was to appear to be a reluctant bride. The whole enterprise seemed a precarious undertaking, held up only by the conviction of its participants that it would work out in the end. If either of them stopped clinging to this belief then the structure could crumble and fall in a moment.

Pulling Henry along with her, Emma walked silently back to the church behind Mr Jones and Reverend Herman. Inside the church it was gloomy and the pews and altar were bare of decoration. Without preamble Reverend Herman took his place at the front of the church and opened the Bible in his hands.

The ceremony was brief and to the point and, at times, uncomfortable. When the Reverend asked them to join hands, Emma automatically held out both of hers only to face an embarrassing pause as Mr Jones kept his bad hand resolutely behind his back and, before she had time to withdraw one hand to help him save face, Emma found both of her hands scooped up by his one good hand.

Of course Mr Jones had no ring so Emma simply removed the plain band she had bought herself many years before and allowed him to replace it when the Reverend instructed. The kiss was cursory and on the cheek, and hardly spoke of romance and flourishing love. The only witnesses were Henry, the boy who had helped carry the coffin, and a young girl wearing an apron and carrying a broom, and none of them seemed to care about the lack of romance.

Henry gave Emma an awkward hug around her waist when she moved to sign the register and he looked as though he wanted to say something to Mr Jones as well, but, in the end, he merely watched as the man walked past him.

In what seemed like an obscenely short time Emma found herself back outside the church, now a married woman. She looked to Mr Jones for direction as to what was to occur next, and found him frowning. "That was…perfunctory," he volunteered, sounding a little puzzled and scratching behind his ear as he spoke.

"He did seem to have…other pressing matters to attend to," Emma agreed.

"Aye. I can't say as I'd be surprised if we found out it wasn't valid," Mr Jones ventured, and Emma bit her lip and wondered if he knew something she didn't. She hadn't come all this way to be tricked into a sham marriage.

She realised, too late, that Mr Jones had been smiling, although the jovial expression melted away quickly as he took in her frown. "I just meant…there was hardly time for God to even show up, let alone…anyway." He broke off and walked towards the wagon again.

"Do we get to see your house now, Mr Jones?" Henry asked, trotting alongside him almost as a puppy would.

Mr Jones turned back to Emma. "Look, I'm not sure what impression Liam gave you in those letters he wrote, but…well, it's not much."

"I'm sure it will be fine, Mr Jones," Emma said, sounding as firm and pleasant as she could in an attempt to wipe away the memory of the previous embarrassment she'd felt.

Mr Jones didn't respond to that, he just looked at her for a long moment, which Emma found extremely disconcerting. She was used to being someone in the background, someone nobody cared about; the orphan child, the shop girl, the housekeeper gliding in the background of the parlour. Attempting to cover up her discomfort Emma blurted out "I'm used to making do."

Mr Jones frowned, but didn't say anything. He climbed back up on the wagon and Henry, this time, decided to take the position beside him. At least he was making inroads into friendship with Mr Jones, Emma thought, as Henry kept up a bright stream of chatter as they set off again. She felt like she'd done nothing but alienate the man since they'd met.

He was probably wishing, now, that he had managed to escape her at the train station. Emma cursed herself, inwardly, for her impetuousness in agreeing to the marriage.

For it was one thing to be an unwanted child; it was something altogether different, she suspected, to be an unwanted wife.

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Thanks so much for the lovely response to this story. I'm blown away! Hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I make no claim to the characters in this story.**

Emma remained silent for the half-hour's journey to their destination, contemplating the flat landscape they travelled through. Intermittently they passed other dwellings but no people. Everything out here was still and empty.

Emma found she rather liked that. She tuned back into the conversation between Henry and Mr Jones in time to hear Henry talking about his father. "He died, in a fire. Before I was born."

She caught Mr Jones' eye as he turned to look at her. "You've been alone a long time, then," he commented.

"But we've had each other," Emma murmured, looking fondly at Henry and hoping to deflect the line of questioning a little.

"And Aunt Regina!" Henry added.

"Your aunt?" Mr Jones asked.

"She died," Henry informed him. "I used to live with her, but all she left us was the tablecloth, not the house. So now we're here at your house."

Mr Jones didn't say anything to that but he looked decidedly less happy about Regina's bequest than Henry did at the prospect of his new home. Emma wondered, again, just exactly what Mr Jones thought of her, but it wasn't something she felt she could ask. He'd married her, hadn't he? And even if he was regretting it now, there was nothing to say he'd keep regretting it. Emma just had no idea what, exactly, she could do to ease his mind right then.

She'd have to fall back on her usual plan; carry on as though everything was going smoothly and hope that it was. Pretend that she couldn't tell that they were lying, that they didn't want her, that they'd never really wanted her. Pretend that it all meant nothing to her.

Eventually they turned towards a property which seemed to have a few more trees than some of the surrounding countryside. Mr Jones pulled the wagon alongside a small cabin surrounded by a few outbuildings. "This is it," he said, perhaps a little redundantly, before climbing down and walking to the back of the wagon.

Emma and Henry climbed down as well, and, between the three of them, they managed to get the baggage down and inside the cabin. The interior was a little bigger than Emma had supposed, but it was dark and it didn't seem particularly welcoming. Nor did its owner.

"I'll…go and see to the horses," Mr Jones said, from behind Emma. When she turned he'd disappeared back out the door they'd come in.

Henry was already exploring and Emma followed his lead. The main part of the cabin housed the free-standing, metal stove, a table and chairs and a small bed. A doorway led into another room with a slightly larger bed and a chest of drawers. Everything was bare but serviceable, she supposed. It would do.

Emma pulled her trunk and her bag into the bedroom and then unpinned her bonnet and removed her jacket, pulling a clean apron from the trunk and tying it on. She would give anything, right then, for a hot bath and time to just…sit. Sit and think through everything that had happened. But she didn't have the luxury of time. The day was drawing to a close and there were things to be done. After all, she'd come here to run a household and she wasn't going to make a poor show of that. Whatever other complaints Mr Jones might have about her, the fact she was lazy wasn't going to be one of them.

Back in the main room Henry had taken a seat at the table and was perusing his cowboy book. "Look, Mama!" he exclaimed. "There's a picture of a house just like this one, only it's getting attacked by Indians!"

"Oh, really?" Emma hoped she was treading the fine line between showing a reasonable amount of interest in the gruesome tales Henry liked to read and not encouraging him too much when he was gripped by the lurid details that seemed to be the drawcard of the book. It was one of the many things about motherhood that she hadn't quite been expecting when she'd come to take Henry back from Regina.

"Do you think there are any Indians out there?" Henry asked her, pointing in the direction of the still-open door.

"No." She was pretty firm on that point. Whatever troubles there were lurking around the place, Indians were unlikely to be the biggest one.

Intent on fixing some supper, Emma perused the shelves and small cupboard that were near the stove. There wasn't much save for a few bottles of liquor, a desultory row of dented tins and some vegetables, a little past their best. She was just going to have to make do.

Henry quizzed her endlessly about things she had no hope of answering, like whether there was an Indian village nearby, or how long it took to learn to ride a horse, or whether there'd be any shoot-outs in the main street of Storybrooke. She sincerely hoped that the correct answer to the last question was the 'no' she'd told Henry, but Emma did reflect that it would have been helpful to have Mr Jones by her side to actually answer a few of Henry's queries.

But there was no sign of Mr Jones. Eventually Emma found herself in need of water and, taking a small pail with a rusty handle, she ventured outside to see if any was available. Walking around the back of the cabin she spied Mr Jones standing in a barn contemplating…the ground. It was immensely obvious he was out here, avoiding her.

Emma felt a hollow space open up in the pit of her stomach.

"Water?" she called out, holding up the pail.

"Well's over there," Mr Jones replied, pointing to the other side of a small building made of sod. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared inside the barn.

Emma wondered, as she drew up the required water, whether all the conversations between herself and her new husband would be as short and to the point. The thought of weeks, months, years even, with a man who couldn't even stand the sight of her, or bear to hear her voice made her deeply sad.

Still, she clutched her pail, swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and made sure her face was pleasant again, before she marched back into the cabin. There was no need for Henry to find out just how miserable she felt.

It wasn't his fault he had her for a mother.

Emma carried on making dinner, banging the few meagre pots and pans she'd found in the cabin in an effort to make herself feel better. Mr Jones, clearly, continued to lurk outside as though his house had been invaded by some kind of pest that he couldn't now rid himself of.

Only Henry deviated from what he'd been doing previously. Instead of looking at his book, he watched Emma, a little warily perhaps. She turned from the stove and caught his gaze. "Mama, you're not happy," he accused.

"No. I'm not…unhappy. I'm just a little…vexed with this stove. That's all." She slammed the door of the stove shut just to prove her point.

Henry tipped his head to one side and eyed her suspiciously. Emma realised that was exactly the way she sized people up when she was trying to figure out if they were telling her the truth or not. She had hoped that his years with Regina had prevented him from developing this particular trait, but it seemed that her hopes had been in vain.

"You don't like him," Henry said sadly.

"Who? The stove?" Emma knew that playing dumb wasn't going to stall Henry for long. He was a smart boy, after all. But she wasn't quite ready to admit the tumult currently going on within her mind.

"No. You know who I mean. Mr Jones." Henry sounded disappointed and it almost broke Emma's heart. The one thing she desperately wanted to avoid was disappointing Henry. And really he needn't be dragged into matters that were between adults, adults who had agreed to a marriage of convenience and were now hiding with the farm animals and regretting their choices. At least, that was how Emma justified pretending to Henry that everything was a lot better than it really was.

"I do. I do like him. He's, um…" she tried desperately to think of something positive to say about Mr Jones. Something that she wanted to share with Henry, anyway. "He seems to cope quite well with only one hand," she finished, just as the person she was speaking about entered the house.

Emma's eyes met his over Henry's head, and she immediately looked away, feeling as though he was silently accusing her of some kind of betrayal. She could understand his lack of a hand being a subject he didn't necessarily want to bring up, but it was a little hard to ignore completely.

"Supper won't be much longer," Emma told the stove, hoping that the message would somehow get through to Mr Jones too.

When he gave no verbal indication that he had, indeed, overheard her speaking to the stove, Emma snuck a glance in his direction. He was still standing awkwardly by the door watching both her and Henry.

Perhaps, she thought, she just needed to make it more obvious what was happening. "Henry? Can you set the table, please?"

"Yes, Mama." Henry closed his book and stood up. "What should I do with these?" he gestured to a couple of bottles that were on the table.

"I'll take those, lad" Mr Jones said, swiping them both up in one hand and disappearing out the door again.

Henry turned and looked at Emma. "Is he coming back?"

Emma was tempted to shrug and say she couldn't possibly know what was going on in the man's mind and the fact he'd run off with his alcohol was simply not a good indication of how the evening was going to progress. But she refrained, and, instead, took a deep breath and said "I think he will be. Let's get the table set."

It was easier said than done. Emma hadn't realised there was such a dearth of usable items in the cabin. They located two tin plates, a small china bowl, one tin mug, a jar, two spoons, two knives and a solitary fork. Clearly, dinner had not been set for more than two people for a while, perhaps ever. Henry spent far more time organising the items on the table than was probably warranted, but Emma left him alone. She might often feel awkward around him, but she did recognise his need to have his world orderly and under his control, probably because she often felt the same way herself.

When the food itself was on the table, Emma pondered whether they should wait for Mr Jones, go in search of him, or simply start eating. She didn't really know what the protocol was; it was her first night married to the man after all.

In the end she sank into a chair next to Henry and motioned for him to say grace. It wasn't something that Emma herself particularly thought necessary, but Regina had instilled a slew of good manners into Henry during his years with her and it seemed a shame to let those slide now.

While Henry was giving thanks to God for the dinner that Emma had managed to scrape together against all odds, Mr Jones slunk back into the house. For a long moment he stood and looked at Emma and she wondered if perhaps she'd sat in his chair or committed some other unnamed offence and she felt the anger rising in her again because, for goodness' sake, how was she supposed to know what any of his expectations were if he was hiding from her all the time?

But then she pushed the anger away as there was simply no point in worrying about how he wanted things done when it was patently clear he didn't want her, and she had no idea how to change that fact. She did, however, suspect that it wasn't the chair she chose to sit in that would make a difference.

Mr Jones eventually sat in a chair opposite Emma and she ducked her head down, avoiding his gaze. He followed suit, probably belatedly attempting to show some respect as the prayers were taking place. Emma found herself curious about the man's religion. She knew, from Liam's letters, if not from the faint accent he carried, that Killian Jones was from Ireland, originally. But that was the sum total of her knowledge. It was entirely possible that some of his discomfort at the church that afternoon had been due to the fact he felt he was betraying some deep-set belief.

She didn't ask him, of course. Personal questions seemed something far beyond the kind of relationship she currently had with the man sitting opposite her.

"Thank you. For…the food," Mr Jones said, haltingly, as Henry finished.

"Oh…it's nothing. Just…" Emma stopped herself. It was thin, watery, vegetable broth and something akin to cornbread, made with the ingredients she'd managed to find. It didn't look all that appealing and she was tempted to shrug it off as a poor attempt at a supper. But the ingredients had been provided by her new husband and, if there was anything she'd learnt by being an orphaned child, it's that people expected gratitude. Every family who'd ever taken her in, however briefly, had expected…or demanded, rather, some acknowledgement that what they gave her was far superior to anything she'd have in the orphanage.

You simply couldn't enter someone's home and begin to imply they had failed at providing the necessities. Not if you wanted your stay to be pleasant.

"It's just something I put together," Emma finally finished, but her words were lost. Henry and Mr Jones were already eating, Henry mostly looking like he was doing so out of politeness, every couple of bites punctuated by a smile in his mother's direction, and Mr Jones as though he hadn't eaten in days. His bad arm was hidden in his lap so his other hand was doing the double duty of spooning in the broth and picking up pieces of the cornbread.

Emma almost forgot to eat herself, but eventually she dipped the fork she was using into the small bowl and attempted to extract some of the vegetables. Henry watched her awkwardness with a growing smile. "We couldn't find all the cutlery," he said, turning to Mr Jones. Emma wanted to reach forward and hush him, because he was, quite clearly, breaking the no-complaints rule, but she had no way to do it surreptitiously.

"It's fine," she said, with a small shrug, at the same time as Mr Jones turned to Henry and asked "Cutlery?"

"Yes, sir. The Knives and forks and things. There's only two of everything. Except the forks. Aunt Regina had lots, but it took forever to polish it."

"Well. Forks are a bit wasted on me now, lad. And there were only two of us here. Until…" Mr Jones trailed off, before pulling off another piece of cornbread and eating it with a studied concentration.

Emma watched as Henry's gaze moved from Mr Jones, back to herself. It was clear that, as the only other adult in the room, Henry expected that Emma would know the right thing to say in the situation. But she had no idea what to say, and offering comfort was not her specialty. Obviously Henry hadn't spent enough time in her presence to realise that.

It made her sad that one day he would.

Looking away from Henry she studied her own bowl of food intently, although she found the contents a lot less interesting than Mr Jones did. She was having difficulty summoning up much of an appetite despite the late hour and the fact her previous meals that day had only consisted of the sandwiches Miss Blanchard had carefully packed for the train journey.

And then Henry broke the silence, his voice sounding far more solemn than it had when discussing the cutlery. "I'm sorry that you lost your brother, Mr Jones." Emma's eyes shot back up to Henry, who was looking pensive as he no doubt hoped he'd found the right words to express what he felt.

Mr Jones just shrugged and said "Aye. It is what it is, lad," before he went back to eating. Emma wasn't sure what to do about either of them. One was so eager to please the man he desperately wanted to be, if not his father, then some other significant person in his life. The other just…might as well have been made of stone.

Were family meals always this difficult? Emma tried to recall the times she'd eaten with the families who'd taken her in, and couldn't remember ever encountering quite this situation. But then she'd never been in the position of feeling responsible for setting the tone and smoothing over ruffled feathers. She'd been the outsider, the one on the edges of the grouping who hoped that she could blend in seamlessly.

Truth be told, she didn't feel all that different right then, either.

They finished their meal in silence, Mr Jones eating seconds with relish, which made Emma ponder the question of how well he'd been managing by himself. His reasons for taking her on quite so readily became apparent; he didn't need a wife, as much as he clearly needed a serving girl.

But she was fooling herself if she ever thought this arrangement was anything more than that, and she knew it. Even if the groom had been her original intended she had been brought here simply to be a glorified housekeeper.

She just wished that she didn't care so much that it was the case. She should be immune to it by now, this longing to be wanted by someone. It was a feeling she did her best to bury deep inside her heart.

And, anyway, Henry wanted her. That mattered to her a great deal.

As soon as he had finished, Mr Jones stood up and looked as though he was going to escape out the door again. "Mr Jones?" Emma called, and he turned to her with a frown, as though he was astonished that she was addressing him.

"Aye?"

"Perhaps tomorrow we might venture back into town for…some supplies?" Emma didn't want to spell out just how bereft the larder here was, but, having created one supper from what was available, she didn't relish the idea of repeating the exercise the next day.

"I suppose, lass," Mr Jones replied, and then he was out the door again.

When supper was cleared away, Emma helped a very weary Henry get ready for the night, tucking him into the small bed in the corner of the room. He had dutifully recited his prayers, adding in a wish for God to look after Mr Jones, as well as his mother, and to look after Mr Jones' brother in heaven.

There was no sign of Mr Jones however, and when Henry's breath evened out to gentle snores Emma, fearing that the oil in the lamp would run low and she would be left searching out candles in a strange house, moved in to the back bedroom. The one she assumed she would be sharing with her husband.

She regarded the lumpy, bare bed a little dolefully, before pulling some linens out of her trunk and beginning to make it up. She didn't want to dwell on the fact that it had probably been stripped after being the last resting place of Liam Jones, but that only meant that her mind wandered directly to something she really didn't want to spend a lot of time thinking about; her wedding night.

Keeping her hands busy, Emma made the bed with the linens she'd brought, topped with a quilt she'd sewn during the long nights in her room at Dr Hopper's. Task completed, she had nothing left but to go back to her own thoughts.

It wasn't that Emma was a blushing virgin of course, and she knew that her new husband wasn't going to expect anything from her that other men hadn't asked for over the years. From time to time, she'd even said yes to them if she felt inclined. Or if she felt she didn't have much of a choice.

So it wasn't the act itself that filled her with trepidation as much as the idea of sharing a bed with someone. She'd never really slept with a man before and to her it seemed more intimate than the act of copulation ever could. Giving herself over to someone, trusting them enough to see her when she was vulnerable, that scared her more than she could say.

Especially when this was it. Forever. There was no changing the way things had turned out now and for better, or for worse, she was married to the man she'd share this bed with.

Ignoring the thudding of her heart in her chest, Emma got ready for bed, changing into her nightgown and taking down and re-braiding her hair. Mr Jones didn't appear, however, and she wondered where he was. She didn't know much about farming but she would venture that there were only so many tasks he had to complete, especially in the dark.

Surely he could only avoid her for so long?

Unsure of what to do to pass the time she sat on the edge of the bed and fretted about how much longer the lamp would last. She took her hair out of its braid, thinking that perhaps wearing it loose might be best under the circumstances.

Emma raked her fingers through the blonde waves that reached past her shoulder blades and immediately realised her decision had been a silly one. It was ridiculous to pretend that she was some kind of virginal girl, eager to spend the first night in the arms of her lover.

It was something she might have done a long time ago, thinking she was in love with a man who'd only let her down. Playing at being his wife.

She wasn't that girl anymore.

It was better to begin as she meant to go on, she reasoned. Emma reached into her case for her hairbrush and began dragging it through her hair again, in preparation to braid it once more. And then the door opened and Mr Jones appeared. He hovered in the doorway and, for a moment, she thought that he might very well turn around and leave again. But he stood a little straighter, as though he'd made a decision, and took another step into the room, closer to where she was sitting on the bed.

Emma suddenly wished she wasn't sitting down at this exact moment. Mr Jones standing so close to her, almost looming over her, and the fact she was only in her nightgown and a shawl made her feel vulnerable. And she disliked that feeling immensely.

"You're just in time," she murmured. "The lamp's almost out."

Mr Jones frowned at her, and she wondered what on earth she'd done this time. "There…I think there's a candle…" Mr Jones said, looking around.

"We could just…I suppose we won't…need anything…in bed," Emma stammered, trying to find a way to tell him to just get it over with. She was desperate to quell the rising tide of anxiety, but feared that nothing would as long as he seemed determined to prolong this awkward moment for as long as possible.

Looking at Mr Jones, at his eyes, which looked almost black in the dim light, at the way he searched her face didn't make Emma feel any more at ease than when she focussed on some other point. She dropped her eyes lower, noting that he kept his left arm hidden behind his back. Still. She wasn't sure why, but it hurt her that he didn't trust her enough to just keep it out in the open.

"I'm grateful, for the fact you agreed to stay," he said suddenly, in a low, almost hoarse voice. "But I'll not make you share my bed."

Emma opened her mouth to try to refute his assumption that his presence would be unwelcome, mostly out of a misplaced politeness, but he cut her off, his voice sounding a little more even now. "It's clear to me that whatever reasons you had for staying, it wasn't for the pleasure of my company."

Emma bit her lip and looked down at the hairbrush that she now held idly in her lap. He thought she was some kind of opportunist. And he didn't really want her.

Mr Jones kept speaking, despite Emma's inability to look him in the eye. "I won't force anything on you. I'm not that sort of man."

Emma nodded. She supposed that something.

"Where will you sleep?" she asked, as he turned to leave again.

Mr Jones nodded at the wall behind them. "Out there. In the sod hut. That's always been mine, anyway." He started to walk away. "Goodnight, Mrs Swan," she heard as he stepped into the darkness.

"It's Jones now," she said, to the sound of his footsteps as they moved through the other room. But there was no reply from Mr Jones.

Emma sighed, and put the hairbrush on the chest by the wall before turning off the lamp and climbing into the slightly chilly bed. She should be happy to have been spared an awkward encounter with a man she'd only met that afternoon. She should be comfortable sleeping by herself, without another body jammed up against her. She should be pleased she'd got through her first day here, and that Henry seemed to be settling in.

But she didn't feel any of those things. She felt alone, and her familiarity with that feeling brought no comfort to her.

Sleep was a long time coming.

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Thanks again to everyone who has been reading this story, and who has taken the time to review it, or follow or favourite it. **

**Disclaimer: The recognisable characters are not mine.**

Walking out the door to the cabin was almost painful. The desire to return to the bedroom where he'd left Mrs Swan was so strong that it took every ounce of Killian Jones' resolve not to give in and turn around.

In his head a nagging, none-too-pleasant voice kept reminding him that she was his now. She'd married him. He could take her and he'd have every right in the world to do so. After all, they'd said their vows to that poor excuse for a minister and no one could blame him for expecting to enjoy his wedding night.

It wasn't even like she'd said no. She'd barely said anything.

She'd just looked at him when he'd entered that bedroom, and the expression she'd worn had been that of a cornered animal which had realised it had nowhere else to run. Not to mention the wary glance at his arm when he came closer. It wasn't like he didn't try to keep it out of view, but, despite his best efforts, it was all anyone focused on.

He pushed open the door of the sod hut and walked into the inky blackness. There was a candle stub on the small box in the corner which he endeavoured to light, and then he kicked off his boots and sat down heavily on the small, hard bed.

Killian brought his left arm across his body and began to undo the straps that held the leather brace. It wasn't the easiest thing to do one-handed, but nothing was. He'd learnt that pretty quickly.

With the brace removed he massaged the skin that had been trapped underneath and then, slowly, almost as though he didn't want to acknowledge it any more than anyone else did, he ran his hand over the stump.

It didn't matter how many times he did it; it never got any better, the feeling of knowing what was missing, what used to be there. It felt wrong and alien and, God, he wasn't used to it even now. Maybe he never would be.

No wonder she didn't want him; crippled and maimed as he was.

After slipping off his braces and undoing his belt, Killian stood up to shuck his pants, and remove his shirt, before sitting back heavily on the bed again. He blew out the candle and lay down and tried not to dwell on how Mrs Swan had looked while brushing her hair, how it had fanned around her face and her pink lips had pressed together and the shawl had slipped off a shoulder and…

The ache in his loins was palpable. In an effort to try to calm down he reasoned that if Liam were still alive then he wouldn't be stuck with the image that was Mrs Swan alone in the bed, but instead Liam would be in there with her. That would only serve to conjure up another, far less pleasing, set of images.

And the fact that he was a tiny bit glad that Liam isn't there made him feel like a traitor, and only served to prove that he's far less of a man than Liam was, despite the fact that he'd gallantly not forced the lovely Mrs Swan to accept him into her bed.

_Emma_, he thought. _Her name is Emma_.

It was better to think of her as Mrs Swan, though. Mrs Jones was the woman his brother was to marry and Emma…Emma is someone he doesn't deserve. Mrs Swan is a far better choice.

He wished he could make her happy, but he feared that he never will and by now the ache in his heart matched the ache lower down and it took a long time and the rest of the bottle of whiskey that he had taken out of the hands of the boy and stashed beside the bed earlier before he finally found any peace.

Killian woke to the sound of a boy's voice and, for a moment while his brain was still dulled by sleep and the effects of the previous night's drink, he believed that he was still a child, and that it's Liam he heard.

But it only took a moment for him to realise that it was Henry's voice. And that he misses Liam dreadfully and he'd gladly give up any claim on Mrs Swan if he could have his brother back. Without Liam here to anchor him he felt adrift and very much alone.

He couldn't make out the conversation going on outside the hut, but he got up and dressed as quickly as he was able, making sure that the hook was in place before he stepped outside to greet the farm's new occupants. The hook makes people uncomfortable, but the stump where his hand used to be is surely worse.

He found them standing outside the chicken coop, with the sun just daring to peek up over the horizon. Killian thought that Mrs Swan looked younger somehow this morning, less stiff and more girlish, her hair escaping its confines around her head and tarnished a brilliant gold by the early-morning rays.

She was laughing at something Henry had said and it was clear to him how much she loved the boy. Killian felt more than a little ashamed for wanting her so badly for himself. It was infinitely better that he just let the boy enjoy being alone with his mother.

It isn't like he doesn't remember what it's like to lose one.

Mrs Swan's laughter stopped when they realised he'd appeared, and he felt like an unwelcome intruder into their family moment. He'd had the same problem since the three of them had first arrived at the farm. He knew, of course, that the reason Liam had wanted a wife was so that someone would run the household, but she had just…taken over, so quickly. And all of a sudden the house was hers and he wasn't sure how to enter it anymore and he certainly didn't think she particularly wanted him there, anyway, so he just stayed away, as much as he could.

He didn't really think he'd been missed.

It was Henry who greeted him. "Good morning, Mr Jones. We're off to see if there are any eggs," he announced. "Will there be any eggs?"

"Perhaps."

"Do they mind? I asked Mama, but she laughed and I don't know if they mind." Killian didn't really understand what it was that Henry was asking him, so he looked over to Mrs Swan for confirmation. The smile had faded from her face and she was biting her lip, a little, and looking concerned, which only served to confirm Killian's thoughts that she didn't like the fact he'd interrupted the happy moment she was sharing with her son.

It was quite clear to Killian where he came in the family pecking order. Not that they were a family, of course. His family were all dead now and it was just him, on a farm, with a woman and her son.

And there was simply no cosy word to sum up that situation.

"I…what?" he asked, fighting the urge to just walk away from an encounter that was uncomfortable in the extreme.

Henry sighed and gave Killian the same look that Liam used to when he was frustrated because Killian just wouldn't understand something. Somehow, though, the notion that someone still cared if he was keeping up with the conversation managed to alleviate a little of the grief he felt at losing Liam. "The chickens," Henry said, slowly. "Will they mind if we take their eggs?"

The question seemed an absurd one to Killian who, if pressed, would admit to the fact that he'd never in his life pondered the feelings of chickens. "No. It's…they're chickens, lad."

Henry looked a little pensive still. "I just thought…no one likes to give up their children." He turned back to look at his mother and Killian saw something flash across her face that looked a lot like guilt and pain and he realised there was some history there, something they hadn't shared with him.

He wanted to ask her, but decided he wouldn't in front of the boy. And not when it made her so clearly uncomfortable. "Come on, Henry!" she called to him, holding an arm out. "Let's go and see." Without looking back she led Henry to the chicken coop and Killian made a valiant attempt to fasten the shirt buttons he'd neglected to do up before leaving the hut. He'd been anxious to see if they needed him and, well, he only had one hand.

That was the story of his bloody life now.

Henry emerged from the chicken coop while Killian was still struggling with his shirt. "We got two!" he announced, sounding as though the joy of actually finding some eggs had wiped away his earlier concern that he was, in fact, stealing chicks out from under the beaks of the hens.

"Very good, lad," he said, finally managing the last button. He was about to walk off when Mrs Swan called out to him. "Uh, Mr Jones?"

He nodded, and she took a few paces towards him and then stopped, abruptly, as though she'd met some kind of invisible line that she couldn't possibly cross. It wasn't like he wasn't used to people being wary of him, of keeping away from him, but it still hurt. He had thought, well, hoped perhaps, that he'd earned some show of…not fondness, but perhaps some goodwill or a sign of friendship from Mrs Swan after he'd left her alone the night before. Clearly, it wasn't to be.

She was just going to treat him like everyone else did. Fine. It probably made things easier that way.

"Perhaps you have some other chores Henry could do?" she suggested, giving him what was clearly an attempt at a sweet smile. It didn't reach her eyes, however, which were fixed on a point far past his head.

"Can you milk a cow?" he asked the boy.

"No, sir. But I could…can I learn?" Henry asked, hopefully.

"Come with me." Killian hoped that he wasn't going to be bombarded with a stream of questions regarding the thoughts of cows on the purloining of their milk, but Henry was so interested in the whole process that he didn't seem worried this time that there might be retribution.

Killian still had to warn him not to get himself kicked by one of the cows. Snow White, especially, could get a little hard to handle if she thought you were sneaking up on her.

It took a few attempts, but Henry managed to get the hand movements down. Of course, having two hands helped immensely, and Killian was glad that he might be spared the long and painful process of doing this one-handed from now on.

Perhaps it wasn't the mother he should be thankful for, but the boy. Liam had been right when he'd picked her. And Henry seemed so genuinely happy to be helping that it took more than a little of the sting out of the fact that the replacement for his missing left hand was a half-grown boy.

It was easier, anyway, to spend time on his own with Henry. He'd spent so long being the younger brother to Liam that he understood how this relationship worked. He answered Henry's questions, tried to keep him from injuring himself or the animals, and made sure at least some work got done in the process. He'd had a good role model for this, and he felt that by just pretending that he was Liam, at least a little, he could get through.

He didn't have any kind of idea how to be a husband. The role models for that were thin on the ground. He almost wished he'd had a chance to observe how Liam dealt with Mrs Swan. At least then he might have had something he could copy.

When they were done he gave the pail of milk to Henry. "You better take that inside to your mother."

Henry's brow creased and his resemblance to Mrs Swan grew more marked. "You're not coming to breakfast?"

Killian wanted to, he had enjoyed having someone cook him supper the night before, even though she'd waved it away. He could pretend that she was doing it because she genuinely cared for him, after all, and not just because he was reaping the benefit of the fact she had to feed her son. But he was still nervous around the family unit that was Henry and Mrs Swan and unsure how to proceed.

It was only breakfast, he supposed. Breakfast was a start. Maybe he could pretend to be someone else long enough to get through one meal. "Aye. I'll be there shortly."

Henry shuffled off slowly, carrying the pail and very clearly trying not to spill any. Killian went into the barn to try to find something else that needed doing. He'd spent a lot of time in here during the previous afternoon and he was running out of things he could do. He wondered if his days were going to be like this from now on; spent in hiding in, what used to be, his own home.

Maybe it was never really home, but it was the future. At least it was when Liam described it to him, outlined all the plans he had, convinced Killian that they needed to put down some roots and have something to pass on when they died.

Only Liam died too soon and now he was responsible for the whole damn thing and hiding in the barn to boot. He was so ill-equipped to be part of any kind of family that he might as well live out here with the cows and the chickens.

Killian sighed and decided that there was nothing for it but to go into the cabin and just get it over with. He walked around the side of the house and in the door and tried to pretend he wasn't hoping that she'd give him a real smile this time, the kind she gave Henry.

But he didn't get anything of the sort. In fact she was so intent on some kind of silent battle with the stove that she barely noticed him at all as he entered the place. He felt he should be glad that she wasn't pretending to like him more than she did, or that she wasn't throwing worried half-glances at his hook. But he wasn't glad, he was annoyed.

It was an unreasonable feeling and he knew that. His own response to the whole situation had been to keep out of her way and pretend he wasn't really there, how could he then blame her for trying to keep up the pretence? But he wanted something from her, some word or glance that said she was his…what? Friend? He wasn't sure. But he was unsatisfied all the same and he didn't think that breakfast was going to fix that.

If breakfast came.

"Mr Jones? Sir? I was telling Mama," Henry said, as Killian sat down. "That the white cow is called Snow White, but the other doesn't have a name. Why doesn't it have a name?"

Killian shrugged. "It didn't come with a name."

"We should call it….um, Red? So they both have colour names?" Henry looked at Killian hopefully.

"If you want, lad." He doubted the cow cared one way or the other, but it seemed to make Henry happy that both the cows had a name now.

Mrs Swan must have resolved her differences with the stove as she appeared beside the table looking flushed and a little out of sorts. "It's ready," she announced, and she placed a hard-boiled egg in front of each of them.

Taking a seat opposite him, the same chair she'd occupied the night before, she continued. "I attempted coffee, but it did not work and there wasn't much there anyway." She turned to Henry. "Eat up."

Henry was peeling the shell of his egg and Killian was about to do the same when it occurred to him. There were only two eggs. "You're not eating?" he asked her.

"I, um…" Her face scrunched up a little, perhaps trying to find a plausible lie. "I'll have something in a little while." That was a less than plausible lie, because he wasn't sure there was anything else, save the milk.

"You should have this," he said, pushing the egg on its plate towards her.

"Oh. No." Mrs Swan waved it away with her hand. "I think you need it more than me."

He took it back but the tight feeling in his chest remained. He wasn't used to having to worry about other people and whether they had enough to eat. Liam had looked after him for many years and, as adults, they'd shared whatever they had between them. This odd little demonstration of self-sacrifice made Killian worried. What was Mrs Swan doing?

"You know," she began, staring at her hands which were clasped on the table. "I don't think I really expressed just how grateful I am for all you've done for us."

Killian concentrated on trying to peel the egg one-handed. His first response to that kind of statement was one of disbelief. She couldn't possibly be grateful for being shackled to a man who had difficulty with a bloody egg.

"I should have said. Last night," she continued. "What it meant to us…to me. Especially to me."

It dawned on him then, what she was trying to say. She was grateful that she didn't have to share his bed, relieved to be spared the burden of trying to pretend she wanted to be his wife. And his reward was a hard-boiled egg.

"Aye," was all he managed to say in response. He ate his egg in silence, counting down the seconds until he could leave the cabin again. Whatever happened, he didn't want to look at her, to see the sadness in her eyes, know that she was so close and yet so far away.

He really did wish he'd just left her at the train station now. He wouldn't have to suffer through this bloody pretence, then. He'd still be alone, and alone suited him fine.

Henry spoke up. "I'm happy too, Mr Jones," he announced, and it took all of Killian's resolve not to correct him because his mother had clearly said grateful, not happy, and those were two entirely different things.

Instead he just swallowed the last of his egg and said "I'm grateful too. For the help about the place. I'll walk you around today and then tomorrow we'll be out all day." There, he was making the best of the situation, using the help she'd so generously provided for him. It was what Liam would have wanted.

He snuck a glance at Mrs Swan, who looked less than happy, however. And he didn't have a bloody clue why.

He waited while she seemed to consider her response. "I think that tomorrow I might take Henry to get settled into school," she said, in the end. "We met the new school mistress on the train, and she is eager to meet all her pupils."

That at least cleared up who the other woman who'd pranced off with Nolan and Gold was, but for some reason, he felt she was being more than a little unreasonable.

"Schooling's not much use if you're a farmer, lass." He looked at her across the table, not breaking eye contact, the challenge unmistakeable. She'd brought her son here so he could be a farmer's boy, learn the ropes, and work the farm and, no doubt, one day inherit the bloody thing. It was the same deal, whether it was him sitting across the table from her, or Liam.

He didn't understand why she suddenly wanted to be so difficult. So much for bloody gratitude; clearly it only extended so far.

"I think school's important whatever you do," Mrs Swan said, her green eyes flashing a little. "And I have no intention of denying Henry the chance to make something of himself."

"So he doesn't end up like me?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Mrs Swan looked taken aback at the vehemence with which he'd questioned her. He couldn't help but feel a little glad at that. She deserved it. She wasn't keeping any of the bargains she'd made and he couldn't do anything about it now without looking like a bad husband. She'd tricked him, and if feeling his anger was the price for that, she could take it.

"No. I…I don't even know you," she hissed, and her words cut right through him. Didn't want to know him, was the clear implication. "But you have to understand, Henry means the world to me. _I'm_ his mother, and I'll decide what's best for him."

She looked at him fiercely, her brow furrowed and her jaw set and something in him snapped. Yes, she was his mother and he was nothing to her. Not even someone she knew. They weren't a family, they weren't anything. Never mind that there wasn't a cosy word for this grouping, there wasn't any bloody word for it because no one in their right mind would want to be a part of it.

He should never have married the bloody, infuriating woman.

He could feel the anger rising in him, his vision getting black around the edges, but he didn't care. She was Henry's mother; well at least he knew how things were going to go. He stood up and leaned across the table, placing his good hand and his hook right in front of her. "You're a bloody stubborn lass," he spat out.

And then he saw it. And it was the worst thing he'd ever seen in his life. Her eyes lost their fire and she just looked scared. Scared he was going to beat her. Or worse.

It was an expression he recognised. Every time his father lost his temper in a great roar of indignation he'd see his mother keep her chin up but her eyes told a different story. She was afraid of his father, just as Mrs Swan was afraid of him now.

And then, in an even more devastating moment, he watched as Mrs Swan's eyes slid slowly towards Henry, still seated at the end of the table, and back to him as if she was silently acquiescing to taking what was coming to her but asking that he not beat her in front of her son.

He's seen that look before too and it merely confirmed the suspicions he'd held for most of his life. He wasn't fit to be anyone's husband or father; he was too like his own. He didn't deserve this, any of this.

Killian wished the ground would open up and swallow him in that moment. He didn't know how to take it back, how to back out of the situation, how to tell her he wasn't that kind of man.

It didn't matter now. He doubted he'd change her opinion anytime soon. The fire went out of him and he conceded defeat.

Back to the barn, he supposed, to lick his wounds.

He sighed and moved to straighten up, keeping his gaze steadily on the table. He couldn't bear to look at her again, to see the hurt in her eyes. And he couldn't bear to see what Henry thought of him now.

He'd ruined everything, and they hadn't even been here for a full day.

But then he felt her hand, tentatively, touch the back of his good one. He risked a glance over at her and the fear, well, most of it, seemed to have left. There was something else now, some kind of resolve. He couldn't be sure, and he certainly didn't know what she'd resolved to feel about him.

He sincerely hoped it wasn't only pity she felt. The kind of pity you might show to a wounded but still dangerous animal just before you shot it.

It probably wasn't too late for an annulment, after all.

"If the issue is that you need some help around the farm, then I'll be here," she said.

"You?"

"Yes. I'll help out."

"The farm…and the house?" He wasn't quite sure what she was offering.

Mrs Swan gave him a small, rueful smile. "I'm not afraid of hard work, Mr Jones. I came here so we could have a better life, and I'm willing to do what I need to do to ensure that. Henry needs his schooling, at least for a few more years. But I can be just as useful."

"But you're…" He stopped himself before he said woman. The trouble was that he didn't know anything about women. Not really. His mother was a distant memory, his sister hadn't survived more than three days, and the only woman he kept company with were hardly likely to be found in a field. He didn't want to doubt her capacity for hard work but he wasn't sure she knew what she was suggesting.

Well. She'd learn soon enough. "Fine," he said, straightening all the way up. "You're here now. You might as well be of some use."

He couldn't help but notice the hurt look that crossed her face. She thought he was referring to the previous night. Well, he couldn't do much about that. There wasn't anything that would change the matter unless she suddenly decided she did want him.

And he guessed it would be a cold day in hell before that happened.

"I think I can be very useful," Mrs Swan said, trying valiantly to raise any sort of a smile. "Tomorrow, if it's fine, I'll do some laundry and you must give me any mending you have…"

"I have none," he said, a little too vehemently, and a crease appeared between her brows, but she didn't openly question his reaction, instead she carried on. "And, of course, today we need to venture out for supplies." There wasn't any hint of a question in her voice.

"Aye," he said, with a certain weary resignation. It seemed like no matter what he did or said, she would get her own way. "We'll leave in an hour."

"Excellent. We'll be ready, won't we Henry?"

Killian didn't wait to hear the boy's response; he left the house and was back out in the bright sunshine of the yard before Henry had even opened his mouth.

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Thank you all for the wonderful response to the last chapter. Sorry I haven't replied to the reviews, but please do know they were all very much appreciated, as were all the new favourites and follows. Really, you guys have done an awesome job of making me feel welcome in a new fandom :D**

**Disclaimer: None of the recognisable characters are mine.**

Emma took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pounding of her heart in her chest. She was ashamed of how scared she'd felt, of the way she'd frozen as soon as he raised his voice to her. Her reaction made her feel weak and alone, just as she had every time it had happened before.

She'd hoped - she'd hoped very hard - that when she came here to Storybrooke she wasn't going to be met with a husband who was like all the people who'd run the orphanages she'd lived in, or the people who'd taken her into their homes and then given her back. She'd wanted something better this time.

And now Emma just felt sad that it wasn't going to be the case. She'd do her best to be what Mr Jones wanted, of course she would. She'd try to work alongside him like she'd promised. But it was patently clear that he was unhappy with her and she was unlikely to wake up in the morning a whole different person.

Most of all she disliked feeling as though she'd disappointed Mr Jones. All because she wanted to be a good mother and put Henry first.

Emma turned to look at Henry, who, she suddenly realised, still hadn't answered her. He was looking more than a little worried and she stood up and walked over to him, putting her arms around his shoulders. "It's not you," she murmured.

"No…I just…I don't have to go to school, Mama."

"You do, Henry." Emma crouched down so she was eye-level with him. She hated he'd been dragged into the argument she'd had with Mr Jones. Hated that he'd had to see her scared and worried as the man they'd pinned their hopes on got angry with her.

Hated that she was going to ruin it here for the both of them.

But she wasn't going to back down on her decision about school. Her own schooling had been almost non-existent. Orphan girls were hardly well-educated. Until she'd arrived on Regina's doorstep Emma could really only write her own name and read a few words at best.

But Regina, and then Dr Hopper, had taught her to read and write and, while she was thankful they had bothered to take the time to do so, she wanted it to be different for Henry. He'd have the chance to do anything he wanted. Sure, she'd brought them here, to this farm, so they could have a better life. But Henry didn't have to stay on the farm. When he was older he could go anywhere, be whatever he wanted. She'd hate it, but she'd wave him off and be happy for him.

She just wasn't going to picture that scene for too long. Not just because it would mean losing Henry, but because it would mean she'd still be here, alone, with Mr Jones.

It was not a fate she was looking forward to.

"Remember we told Miss Blanchard you'd be there?" Emma reminded Henry, hoping that he'd show more interest in spending time with the woman he'd liked so much on their journey here.

"I suppose we did," Henry replied, a little grudgingly.

"And she's counting on you to honour your word. So you'll go to school, and I'll…I'll help Mr Jones." Emma tried to sound a little happier about that prospect than she felt. Henry stared at her for a long while, clearly trying to read something in her face. She wondered what he was thinking, but he didn't seem inclined to share it, and she was too afraid to ask.

Whatever worries Henry had now, after witnessing the scene between herself and Mr Jones earlier, she very much doubted that she could ease them.

Emma straightened up and brushed her hands on her apron. "I think we should get ready now, Henry."

"Yes, Mama." He stood up from the table and moved towards his little corner of the room, hopefully searching for his hat.

Emma cleared away the breakfast things, glad that at least one of the members of her household was doing as she wished. Mr Jones had disappeared again and she wasn't sure if going in search of him was a particularly good idea.

She walked into her own room and regarded the bed which took up most of the space in there. It loomed larger than it had the previous day, or, at least it seemed that way to her. As a child she'd longed to have her own bed, her own room. Such a luxury could only be dreamed of. But now, as a married woman, it was simply testament to the fact that she'd once again arrived in a place where she wasn't wanted.

Still, she was nothing if not a survivor. Emma removed her apron and put her bonnet and jacket on. She walked back out into the main room, determined to find Mr Jones and set out on the journey back to town. She didn't expect to find him entering the house of his own accord.

There was a long, awkward moment while they stood on opposite sides of the table, each waiting for the other to break the silence.

"You're ready," Mr Jones said, in the end. Emma wasn't entirely certain if it was a question or a statement and so she hesitated for a moment to consider her response.

"Yes." It seemed the most straightforward thing she could say, although she was concerned that it took her longer than most people would think necessary to come up with a one-word answer. The new tension that filled the air between herself and Mr Jones was going to become very tiring if it continued on.

Her heart sank when she realised she had no reason to believe that it wouldn't.

"We'll leave then. Henry?" Mr Jones started out the door again. Henry began to follow him and then hesitated, looking back at his mother. Emma nodded encouragingly although inside, she was more than a little annoyed. First Mr Jones wanted to question her decision to send her son to school, now he was blatantly trying to win the boy's favour in an attempt to get him to take sides.

She'd wanted Henry to have a father, but not at the expense of her own relationship with him.

There was nothing else to do now, however, but follow them out to the wagon. She climbed up next to Henry, who had already taken the seat next to Mr Jones, and they set off.

Emma watched the landscape pass her by and idly listened to Henry pepper Mr Jones with questions about who lived where and what the farms grew and how much longer until they got to town and could he possibly hold the reins for just a little while? She was grateful that Mr Jones continued to answer the boy; after the events of that morning he could just as easily have decided to withdraw completely given her insistence that she was Henry's mother and, therefore, the only person who was allowed to make decisions about him. It wasn't exactly how she'd pictured her interactions with the man who would, from now on, be Henry's father.

But then, she realised, she had perhaps been holding onto a false view of what Henry having another parent would be like. When he'd lived with Regina she'd had to defer to the other woman's wishes for her son, and she had hated it. She'd told herself that it was necessary, that it meant that Henry had the stability she hadn't as a child. That she couldn't give him the things Regina could and so she would wait, and one day…one day they'd get to be a family.

Somehow, though, she'd thought that marrying and finding Henry a father would allow him a male presence…sometimes. Like a pet or a friend, the father she'd pictured would come and go and leave Emma to still enjoy having Henry all to herself.

She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that scenario was not going to play out, and she felt jealous. It was an awful realisation and it made her feel weak and childish. She didn't know how to negotiate with a husband, didn't know how to share her son. Most of all she didn't want to share, not again, and not something as precious to her as Henry. After a lifetime of not having anything to call her own, it was a lesson she hadn't perhaps learned.

And maybe she was too old to learn it now.

The road into Storybrooke could barely be called such and, after being bounced around in the wagon on the journey there, Emma felt a little physically knocked around as well as emotionally battered and bruised. She had thought that her childhood had prepared her for this situation, for marrying a man she'd never met and learning how to be his wife.

But she was coming to realise that this was a whole new experience and one which was, in reality, not in the least bit exciting. The adventure she'd been sold was a dud, to put it truthfully.

And she held little hope for the trip to the town's one general store being any more pleasant than anything else that had happened that morning. Mr Jones had jumped off the wagon almost before the horses stopped and spent a long time tying them up. Emma made her own way down and, while she was carefully stepping off the wagon, she caught Henry looking at her a little guiltily.

"I like speaking to Mr Jones," he confessed.

"And that's as it should be."

Emma watched Henry and his expression changed from slightly guilty to something more reproachful. She hoped he wasn't going to bring up the fact that she and Mr Jones were carefully not talking to each other. She was thankful that Regina had instilled a healthy dose of respect for his elders into Henry that would prevent such a comment. It was bad enough that she could feel Henry's silent rebuke, she didn't really need to hear the words.

And if it was anyone's fault, it was Mr Jones' anyway. If he couldn't control his temper then what could he expect?

Fearful of carrying on her silent conversation with Henry any longer, lest she give her feelings away, Emma glanced around the town. It looked much as it had on the previous day, a variety of buildings clustered alongside the one road. People milled about and, while some were obviously a little dustier and more hardened than those she was accustomed to viewing on the streets of Boston, they were mostly the same as people anywhere.

A few of them glanced her way and she wondered if they knew anything about her, or the circumstances of her arrival. She had somehow thought that it would be different in Storybrooke and that being introduced to people as Liam Jones' wife would smooth the path for her.

But that wasn't who she was. She was the woman who'd come to marry a dead man, and ended up marrying his brother instead. It made things complicated and she didn't enjoy complicated at all. Complicated just gave people a reason to ask you a dozen different questions and she did not much like the idea of being questioned by anyone.

This was supposed to be her new start and her old life would just melt away like it had never happened. Becoming the object of curiosity for a small town's citizens hadn't been a fate she'd wished for herself.

Emma decided that the best thing to do was to just let it wash over her. She stood up straighter and fixed her gaze on the train station, as though she was waiting for someone to arrive. She was definitely not going to stand around waiting for Mr Jones to remember he was married to her and actually pay her some attention.

It was just a little unfortunate that she was so consumed with not paying attention to the man, that, as a consequence, she failed to notice when he was trying to speak to her. "Pardon?" she asked, when she realised he was standing there.

Emma would have to add rudeness to her list of transgressions now, as Mr Jones looked less than pleased as she turned to look at him. His dark eyebrows were knitted together as he regarded her with what could only be described as a glare.

Well, two could play at that game. Emma lifted her chin slightly and kept her eyes locked on his, waiting for him to repeat his earlier remarks.

Two might have been able to play at that game but, clearly, three couldn't. Henry who was, Emma supposed, no doubt aware of the tension between the two of them suddenly burst out with a question. "Are we going into that store over there?"

Emma looked over to where Henry was pointing. Like most of the buildings the one he'd picked out was wooden, and the sign over the door simply read Lucas General Store. It seemed as good a guess as any.

She watched as Mr Jones nodded at Henry in confirmation and then turned to walk in the direction Henry had been pointing. Whatever he'd been trying to say to her, he clearly wasn't going to say it again.

Emma felt she should feel a little chastened by this, but, mostly, it just got her ire up. There just wasn't any way to express that feeling at the moment, other than by her continued silence.

She followed Mr Jones along the dusty road, Henry walking alongside her and still glancing worriedly at her a few times. It was hard for Emma not to bristle under his gaze; she'd at least tried sticking to the tried-and-true methods of being cheerful and grateful. It was hardly her fault they'd failed where Mr Jones was concerned.

There was clearly something wrong with the man if he didn't understand that she was trying.

The interior of the store was considerably more pleasant than the exterior. Every inch of the available space seemed packed with some kind of item for sale, and the variety of items was wide. Emma stopped worrying about Mr Jones for a moment and started feeling a little overwhelmed. The shopping trip had been, until now, shadowed by the icy relationship she could feel forming between herself and her new husband, but she suddenly realised that she had better come up with a plan for what they were buying. And fast.

Henry was momentarily distracted by a display of gardening tools and Emma tried to gather her thoughts. She should, of course, have been used to shopping for a household, but this felt rather different to anything she'd done in Dr Hopper's employ. For one thing, she was suddenly in charge of purchasing items when she had no idea of what budget she was working to.

There wasn't much food at the farm, after all, and she had no way of knowing if that was from negligence on Mr Jones' part, or lack of funds.

She snuck a glance over at Mr Jones in an attempt to gauge his thoughts, but he gave nothing away. His hat was pulled low, his shoulders hunched, his left arm behind his back and slightly under his jacket so the hook was out of sight. He looked very much like he didn't want to be there at all.

It was possibly the first time all morning that Emma might have agreed with him.

But any notion she may have entertained about fleeing the store was quickly quashed by the appearance of a girl behind the counter. She was younger than Emma, with thick dark hair and full, red lips. She looked Mr Jones over and then fixed him with a wide smile that didn't seem at all forced. "Mr Jones. I wasn't expecting to see you in the store today."

Emma looked at him closely to see how he reacted to her. He smiled back in a way that made Emma think that Mr Jones and the shop girl had enjoyed these little exchanges previously. "Miss Lucas," he replied, in a much kinder voice than he'd possibly ever used while speaking to Emma. "How could I stay away?"

That was not the reaction she'd expected from him at all and Emma found it all intensely interesting to observe. She just wished that it was interesting in a way that she could be completely impartial about. Sadly she found that she was more than a little hurt.

This was a ridiculous notion, of course. She'd known the man a whole day, after all. She may have married him, but she hardly had any right to feel jealous of the way he was speaking to a girl in a shop.

Emma tried to wave her feelings away. It was humiliating in much the same way as her reaction to him that morning had been, when he'd appeared before them with his shirt unbuttoned and she'd had to stop herself from getting too close to him, pulling up short as she walked towards him. Emma was afraid that any proximity might just lead her to actually reach out and touch him, not out of any desire to help him with the buttons he so clearly struggled with, but because she was intensely curious about the feel of the dark hair that covered his chest. She couldn't allow herself to get swept away on a tide of silly, girlish fantasies about a man who didn't want her.

Emma was infuriated with Mr Jones, and infuriated with herself for allowing her feelings to run away with her. When Miss Lucas looked in Emma's direction she was sure that the girl's eyes went wide as she no doubt saw the angry expression Emma was currently sporting.

It was not the first impression she had hoped to make. She tried to gather her thoughts and try to get her emotions under control.

"And, of course this is…" Mr Jones turned his head in Emma's direction and then paused. She gritted her teeth behind the smile she'd carefully worked her features into and waited to see if he'd label her Swan or Jones.

But she never got to hear which name he intended to use because the girl behind the counter, the Miss Lucas he seemed on such good terms with, let out a small gasp of recognition. "Oh, of course," she said. "We knew you were coming…but…and then…I'm so sorry. For your loss." She sent a wide-eyed look of sympathy in Emma's direction.

Emma tensed, unsure how to deal with the fact that the news of her impending arrival had obviously been common knowledge and the added information that this girl was offering condolences on the death of a man Emma had never met.

Her gaze shifted to the side, most decidedly away from Mr Jones, and she murmured "Thank you," to Miss Lucas, knowing all the while she was not the one who should be on the receiving end of heart-felt sympathies.

And then it occurred to Emma that Miss Lucas had probably already offered some kind of…comfort to Mr Jones, and she became even more uncomfortable with being in the store with the two of them. The petulant child who seemed to have taken up residence in Emma's head reminded her, once again, that it wasn't supposed to be like this, at all. And the knowledge that this situation was far from the one she had pictured back in Boston burned in the back of Emma's throat and made further comments impossible. All she could do was nod at the woman and pretend that it would suffice as a demonstration of her good manners.

Henry seemed to have lost interest in the implements on display in the store and he appeared at Emma's side. "And this is Henry," Mr Jones continued, no doubt for Miss Lucas's benefit.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Henry said, and Emma felt her heart swell a little with the pride that she never failed to feel whenever Henry was…well, Henry. It was just a little bit magic, she thought, that moment when your child made you proud. And he was hers. All hers.

"Well, you are sweet!" Miss Lucas exclaimed. Her face had lost the solemn expression it had held just a moment ago, but her smile wasn't for Emma, it was for Henry. And Mr Jones.

Emma sighed, as loudly as she dared. "We've come for some items," she announced, in her most authoritative voice. "Perhaps you'd be so kind as to assist?"

It was impossible not to notice the way Miss Lucas stiffened at her words, and shot a glance in the direction of Mr Jones, as though to silently commiserate with him. Emma cursed herself inwardly that, once again, the impression she was making was not the one she wanted to make. Nothing she did seemed to turn out right.

"Of course," Miss Lucas replied, with admirable composure, Emma thought. But then curiosity clearly got the better of her professional air. "So…you're staying on for a while, then? In Storybrooke?" she asked, looking at Emma as though she was trying to figure out what on earth would make her stay.

Emma's eyes travelled to Mr Jones. She hoped he might elaborate on their situation given that all she seemed to have done was alienate Miss Lucas since the start. But he remained silent.

"I…we're wed," Emma said, her voice sounding flat even to her own ears. She'd never expected to be the joyous bride, but she just sounded downright miserable about the whole situation.

And Mr Jones, of course, standing only two feet away from her couldn't help but notice. At least, that was what Emma supposed from the way his shoulders slumped as she spoke. The whole situation was uncomfortable in a way she'd never experienced before. And she'd had more than her fair share of tense moments.

"Well…congratulations?" Miss Lucas managed to make that sound as though it was a question. If it was, it was something that Emma couldn't possibly answer. Not right at that moment, anyhow.

"Thank you," Emma managed to force out, and then there was a long, tense moment while she tried to ascertain if she needed to add anything further. Neither Mr Jones nor Miss Lucas seemed to want to contribute further conversation and Henry, no doubt growing increasingly uncomfortable with the constant air of tension surrounding all the adults, was growing restless at her side, twisting and turning and shuffling his feet around. "Perhaps we should move on to the task at hand," Emma murmured, looking for any way out of the hole she'd managed to dig for herself.

"Certainly," Miss Lucas replied, nodding two or three times. "What is it that you require Mrs…Jones?"

The sound of her new name out of someone else's mouth made an already tense moment worse, Emma realised. But there was nothing for it than to go forward now. "I think," she said, trying to gather her thoughts. "We need flour, coffee, and some sugar. Let's start there."

Emma managed to dampen down her embarrassment long enough to get through the rather tedious process of ordering all the things they needed. Without previous discussions of how much they had to spend she endeavoured to stick to the basics, rejecting items she considered luxuries, such as cinnamon, something she'd discovered late in life but which she was very fond of.

But there wasn't much call for spices as a farmer's wife, she supposed. She was also going to be reliant on what vegetables she could salvage from the small garden she'd spied on the farm, and she asked for Ruby for a little salted beef while Mr Jones mumbled something about rabbits. She'd have to count on him for further meat.

When everything was packaged and waiting on the counter, Miss Lucas began totalling up the goods they'd purchased, frowning as she wrote everything up with a pencil she gripped rather tightly. Emma watched as Mr Jones started shuffling forward towards her, at first hesitantly, and then with a little more purpose.

He leaned on the counter, directly in front of Miss Lucas and fixed her with that smile again. "Thank you for your help with that," he said. "We'll, ah…Just add it to the account."

Miss Lucas looked up from the bill she writing and she wasn't smiling back this time. "Oh. Oh…uh. Granny won't…well, _she_ said to me… It's, uh…No. Sorry."

Emma wondered how Mr Jones would take that refusal, but he appeared to brush it off. "Come now," he said, gently, leaning further over the counter. "You're a smart lass. I'm sure Mrs Lucas would understand if you saw fit to extend a little credit to a, well. To a _family_ who's in need of a little kindness at the moment."

Emma couldn't help but bristle at the mention of family. It seemed typical that he only chose to acknowledge that she and Henry had any connection to him right at the moment when he couldn't pay for the items they were trying to purchase. He was clearly playing on the good nature of the shop girl and Emma, who couldn't exactly admit to having a completely lily-white past, still felt more than a little uncomfortable at the scene unfolding in front of her.

Miss Lucas pressed her lips together and looked as though she was squaring her shoulders for another refusal, but then Mr Jones tried one last time. "Miss Lucas… Ruby. I know it's a lot to ask, but I…I'm sorry. With Liam gone, things are tight. And our funds have dwindled further than I knew." Mr Jones turned and his gaze fell on Emma and she tried to read his expression. Sad, she thought. Mostly, he just looked sad.

And then, all of a sudden, Emma realised where exactly these dwindling funds Mr Jones kept speaking of had gone, and her heart sunk so fast she was surprised that no one could hear it as it hit the floor.

On her. Liam Jones had spent their last money on bringing her, and Henry, to Storybrooke. He'd bought a bride and he hadn't told his brother and now she was the only legacy there was to pass on. No wonder Mr Jones had wanted her to stay, no wonder he'd offered to take her on. He didn't really want her, but couldn't let Liam's investment just get back on a train.

It wasn't that she hadn't been someone's secret before. She'd just never had to confront the consequences quite so brutally.

Emma wanted to run right out of the store at that moment, find a train, and get the hell out of Storybrooke. But fear, and a certain sense of propriety, kept her rooted to the spot.

"I suppose we could add this," Miss Lucas said, more than a little grudgingly. "But Granny won't like it and it can't happen again."

"Thank you, lass," Mr Jones said, with something that sounded like genuine gratitude. He took the box of items, balanced carefully in his arms, and walked past Emma and out of the store without making eye-contact.

Emma sighed, and was about to bid good-bye to Miss Lucas and follow him, when Henry stepped up, holding a small paper package. "Mama," he said, sounding serious. "I think we should get these." He held up the packet for Emma's perusal. Written on the paper, in a beautiful script, were the words Apple Tree.

"They're seeds," he explained. "We could plant an apple tree. In the garden…well, outside the house. Then it will feel like home."

Henry gazed up at Emma expectantly, his dark-brown eyes shiny with hope. Emma looked at the packet in her hand. Home, he said. But Emma had never really had a home. And the apple tree had been in the garden of Regina's home.

"Alright," she said, slowly. If Henry needed an apple tree to feel at home, then she'd get him an apple tree. It seemed the least she could do. "Miss Lucas, could we possibly add this to the bill?"

Once the seeds were purchased, Emma and Henry stepped back outside into the sunshine. She could see the wagon they'd arrived on, still tethered to the post. Their shopping had been placed on the back, but Mr Jones was nowhere to be seen. She wasn't sure what to do next. Did they wait or find something else to occupy them while he was elsewhere?

She didn't have too long to ponder their next actions as, just then, she heard a voice calling her name. "Mrs Swan!"

"Look, Mama!" Henry said, pointing. "It's Miss Blanchard."

Emma squinted and could make out Miss Blanchard as she hustled over, the grey silk of her dress rustling as she did so. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you!" she exclaimed, breathlessly, as she reached them. "Both of you." She fixed Henry with a bright smile and he smiled shyly back.

"And it's lovely to see you as well," Emma replied, trying not to look as though she was still searching around the town for any sign of Mr Jones. But she was, of course. He'd left the wagon, sure, but he'd also left her and it wasn't the first time someone had just walked away from her and never come back again. And it wasn't even like he'd made her any promises first.

"Are you settling in?" Emma asked, more for a distraction than anything else.

"Oh, yes. I'm staying with Mr Nolan, the sheriff, and his mother and step-father, the Spencers. They're all very charming, just lovely. They've been very welcoming. Sheriff Nolan's been helping me with the schoolroom this morning, and we were just taking a walk around town, so I could get better acquainted with everything." Miss Blanchard paused long enough to cast a glance back over her shoulder to where a tall man with fair hair was standing. Emma recognised him as one of the men who'd collected Miss Blanchard from the train station the day before. He gave a nod in Miss Blanchard's direction, but didn't join them as another man approached him and called his attention away.

Still, Miss Blanchard continued to keep her eyes on Sheriff Nolan just long enough to give away exactly what she thought of him. And then she turned back to Emma. "And you? Your Mr Jones came for you, I presume?"

Emma thought about how to explain her situation in a way that didn't sound complicated but, once again, Henry stepped in on her behalf. "The other Mr Jones did," he said.

"The other one?" Miss Blanchard looked from Henry to Emma.

"Yes," Emma confirmed. "His brother…"

Henry, clearly tired of being left out of so many adult conversations that morning, jumped in again, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Mama's Mr Jones died. He got hit by lightning. We saw him get buried. Then the other Mr Jones…the one she has now…he married her instead. So we can still live on the farm and I can milk a cow now and I'll ride soon. And probably fish. Also, we're going to plant an apple tree. We bought the seeds."

Miss Blanchard was getting better at hiding her surprise at the things Henry blurted out, Emma noticed, as her eyes barely widened this time and her smile never faded at all. Still, when she no doubt reached the conclusion that Henry's little speech was done, she turned to Emma with her perfect dark brows knitted together. "He died?" she queried.

"Unfortunately, yes. Freak accident." Emma realised she sounded detached, but what could she do? She couldn't manufacture a sense of loss for someone she'd never known. More to the point she was still trying to ascertain the whereabouts of her Mr Jones, as Henry had termed him.

_Killian_, she reminded herself. _His name is Killian_.

"That's…" Miss Blanchard clearly couldn't come up with what that was, but her eyes filled with tears which threatened to fall. And then she grasped Emma's hands in hers and Emma had to resist the urge to pull them back. She was simply uncomfortable with and downright unused to such displays of emotion. Especially when they were on her behalf.

"We will make do," she assured Miss Blanchard. "And be quite happy in Storybrooke."

"With your new husband," Miss Blanchard added, with less conviction that Emma had mustered. "Was it strange? Marrying a man you'd never met?"

Emma opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Yes, it was strange. But she couldn't confess that. No matter how kindly Miss Blanchard looked at her, how much she appeared to be concerned with Emma's well-being. It was too…personal. She couldn't let it be known that, once again, she'd failed to be what anyone wanted. "It was unexpected. But I barely knew Liam Jones; we only corresponded for a short time, after all. I am certain that his brother is cut from the same cloth. And he has shown himself more than willing to look after Henry and myself, as his brother would have wished."

_I am a big, fat liar_, Emma thought.

Miss Blanchard nodded, but didn't look overly convinced. And then Henry pointed and said, loudly, "Look. He's over there! See, Mama! He was here all along."

Henry sounded happy to have located Mr Jones; Emma supposed he'd been missing his company. She took her hands back from Miss Blanchard and grabbed Henry's hand and held it tightly, just in case he decided to run off and greet him. She didn't need Henry getting knocked over by a carriage or wagon right then.

Henry didn't complain, but he didn't stop pointing, either, and Miss Blanchard, naturally, turned to see Emma's new husband who, now that Emma could focus on him properly, was standing outside a building which had a large sign on its front proclaiming it to be the Queen of Hearts saloon. He was holding what was clearly a bottle of alcohol and having an animated conversation with a young woman.

Well, her side of the conversation was animated. She'd pointed at his chest more than once. Mr Jones was standing stock still and just…accepting it. As though he'd heard it before, whatever the girl in the green satin and black lace dress with the messy blonde hair piled on top of her head had to say to him. Outside a saloon. In which she probably worked.

And resided.

And Emma really didn't want to follow that train of thought any longer. She was mortified, simply mortified. And to make it worse, Miss Blanchard was still standing in front of her, looking in the same direction and failing to miss Mr Jones and his…friend.

"The man with the hoo…" Miss Blanchard began, before stopping abruptly. "I mean. The man over there. In front of the…that building?"

"Yes. That's him, Miss Blanchard," Henry announced, a little warily. No doubt he could sense there was something odd in the way the two women had reacted to their sighting of Mr Jones.

Emma couldn't think of a single thing she could say that would make the situation better. So she stayed resolutely quiet in the hope that something, anything, would make the whole scene before her disappear.

But there was no mistaking what was going on. Especially not when the girl with Mr Jones looked over at Emma and then turned back to him to resume pointing and talking. Emma couldn't hear their conversation, but she had very little doubt of its subject.

"Mrs Swan?" Miss Blanchard said, in an urgent, low voice, breaking into Emma's musings. "I'm sorry if I'm speaking out of turn, but I would like to be frank with you, if I can."

"Certainly." Emma's voice was stiff and high and she hated Mr Jones for putting her in this position. If she could have struck him dead in the street with the force of her will alone, then, right at that moment, she would have. Consequences be damned.

Miss Blanchard moved so her mouth was close to Emma's ear, no doubt so she could speak quietly and avoid Henry hearing. "If you feel unsafe or just…want to leave," she murmured quickly. "Then I will assist you in any way I can. Do not feel yourself friendless because this is a new place. I am here and no doubt Sheriff Nolan and his mother, Mrs Spencer, will open up their home to you and Henry, just as they did to me. Until you can return to your own home, that is."

Miss Blanchard stepped back and gave her a long, hard look, as though she was imprinting her earnestness on Emma. But Emma didn't feel comforted by her words. She'd spoken of home. A home Emma could return to.

Emma had no such thing. And she was ashamed to admit that to this kind stranger who seemed to care so much.

"We will be fine," Emma said, eventually. Miss Blanchard looked a little sceptical at that and then, after a moment, she looked a little sheepish. "But I am not…offended that you chose to speak your mind," Emma continued. "I thank you for your concern."

She was sure that her words sounded false, not because she didn't feel thankful, but because she was so unused to having cause to say them. But they seemed to work to brighten Miss Blanchard's mood and send a smile back to her face.

Still Emma wished that Miss Blanchard would leave, preferably before Mr Jones re-joined their party. She didn't, and instead the Sheriff, having finished with whatever business he had with the other man, joined them instead.

Miss Blanchard's smile grew considerably brighter at that point. "Oh, Sheriff Nolan! You remember Mrs Swan, who was so good as to accompany me on the train? And her son, Henry." Miss Blanchard fixed all three of them with such bright smiles that she may as well have been making the introductions at the church picnic.

"Ma'am," the sheriff said, as he touched the brim of his hat and nodded to Emma. She felt mildly pleased that the conversation had moved on from the uncomfortable spectacle of Mr Jones beside the saloon. But then she realised that it was now or never.

"Actually, it's Mrs Jones now. As I was married yesterday." Emma watched as the sheriff's eyes darted in the direction that Emma now simply refused to glance in and it was absolutely clear to all and sundry that he'd put two and two together and come up with her situation in a nutshell.

To his credit, it only showed on his face for a moment or two. But she noticed that no congratulations were offered, no questions were asked about how she'd met her husband, or what brought her out here. Sheriff Nolan just looked sorry for her.

She'd seen that look before.

"Well," he said eventually, turning to Miss Blanchard. "I should be getting you back for lunch. Mother will be wondering where we are." He extended his arm, and Miss Blanchard took it.

"I wouldn't want you to get in trouble," she said, perhaps a little breathlessly.

"No," the sheriff replied. "And you'll get to meet Kathryn, too. I'm sure you'll be great friends."

"Yes. Oh. Your fiancée, yes." Miss Blanchard sounded a little less enthusiastic now. "We should definitely be getting back, then." She turned to Emma. "I hope…well. Just remember what I said. You have friends. A friend, anyway." Her eyes flicked over to where Mr Jones was no doubt still standing.

"Thank you," Emma replied, and she meant it. She was grateful, but there was nothing Miss Blanchard or anyone else could do for her. She'd made her bed, and she'd lie in it, alone, until she died.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Blanchard," Henry added, as she and the sheriff turned to leave.

"Well, that will be lovely. I'll have at least one pupil to get me started!" Her words were cheerful, and Emma thought that whatever had bothered her earlier had passed.

At least Henry was going to like his teacher, she thought, as she watched the two of them depart. That was something, she supposed. And it was far better to focus on Henry, the reason she was here, after all, than on the man who was currently dashing all her hopes for a better life.

"Alright," she announced, as authoritatively as she could muster right then. "Let's get back on the wagon and wait for Mr Jones."

"Yes, Mama."

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Once again, I'm blown away by the response to this story. You are all so very awesome! So awesome, in fact that I'm posting this a day earlier than I intended :D**

**Also, if anyone is interested in something else to read, I have put up the start of a modern AU on Tumblr (you can find me under ooshka-babooshka and be warned, I'm really cruddy at the whole Tumblr thing so far) which you might want to check out.**

**Disclaimer: I make no claim to the recognisable characters mentioned in this story.**

The fact she had avoided talking to him all morning wasn't really an impediment to Killian knowing exactly what Mrs Swan thought of him right then. It was abundantly clear in the set of her shoulders as he watched her climb into the wagon from where he was standing by the saloon, being harangued, once again, by that girl.

Trouble was that he'd heard it, or variations of it, all before. Heard just what a pathetic excuse for a man he was, and, although he'd like to say none of it had ever sunk in, Killian couldn't help but feel that her words were wasted precisely because he knew they were true.

"I can't believe you have the nerve to parade _her_ around town. After everything that happened!" the girl continued, jerking her head towards Emma. Killian wasn't entirely sure if she had a real name, mostly she was just known as the Tinker's Belle, due to the fact she'd arrived in town on the wagon of a tinker, who may or may not have been her father. There were rumours that most of the work he carried out for the citizens of Storybrooke was actually completed by this tiny girl anyway, but it still didn't seem to have stopped him leaving her behind when he left. And so she'd ended up in the saloon, last resort of all homeless and nameless girls.

He'd almost feel sorry for her; if she'd just bloody well shut up for a second, that is. "You don't understand," he murmured, feeling that the words were inadequate and sounded self-pitying, although he wasn't looking for sympathy. It was simply the truth. The only person who'd understood, or, at least, had held himself back from judging Killian, had been Liam. And he was dead and buried now.

Everyone who might have sided with him was, now. And Killian felt incredibly alone, standing in the middle of the street, under the curious gaze of his new wife and the rather scornful expression of the girl right in front of him.

It would have been so different if Milah had lived.

"What exactly don't I understand? I'm living it, same as every other woman in there is, ain't I?" The Tinker's Belle gestured to the saloon and Killian turned towards the door she was pointing at and saw a rustle of purple silk skirts in the background. It was too much to hope that_ she_ wouldn't be watching him from the shadows, he supposed. Cora Mills, proprietor of The Queen of Hearts saloon, would no doubt welcome any opportunity to remind him of exactly what he'd done.

"I'm through with this conversation. Good day," he said, trying to step away from the girl, who seemed a little reluctant to give up on her quest to drag him down as far as she could.

"She'll find out," she spat back at him, sounding like an angry cat on a dark night. "Your fancy new wife. She'll find out and then she'll be sorry she ever stayed here with you, and I can't blame her at all. Who'd want to be married to you?" With that she turned on her heel and flounced back into the saloon, leaving Killian standing there, in the street, feeling that he couldn't help but agree with her last sentiments.

Perhaps he should just throw himself under the next train and save them all from further misery?

But there wasn't a train due that day, and he could hardly sneak off when he'd heard Henry point him out just moments before, when he'd seen Mrs Swan and that schoolteacher and the bloody Sheriff all sneaking glances at him being accosted by one of the women from the saloon. He had nowhere to hide. Not from her, not from any of them.

That feeling just made him angry with Mrs Swan all over again. It was irrational, and he knew that. At least, he would have if he'd stopped to examine his feelings. But he was hardly about to stand in the main street, in full view of everyone, and ponder his own contribution to the debacle that was his day old marriage to Mrs Swan.

And so, despite having already spent enough time dealing with the aftermath of what happened to him to know that he, alone, was the person most responsible for his own fate, Killian couldn't help but now feel that some of the problem was due entirely to Mrs Swan's completely unreasonable desire to marry a man she'd only ever corresponded with and drag her son to Kansas in the process.

Because if she'd never come here, then she'd have never have had cause to be so bloody disappointed in him. And, really, he could have lived his whole life quite happily without seeing the evidence of that.

Killian walked to the wagon, carefully avoiding meeting Mrs Swan's gaze, although he could almost guarantee that she'd be looking anywhere but at him. It was bloody impressive just how fascinating the wall in front of them seemed to be. Almost as impressive as her ability to completely ignore his attempts to speak to her earlier. He untied the horses and clambered up, noticing that Henry was, once again, wedged firmly into the middle of the seat, no doubt placed there by his mother as a barrier between them.

He got the horses moving and they set off. Killian wasn't particularly sorry to see the buildings of Storybrooke disappearing, although he wondered what on earth awaited him back at the farm. So far she was holding her tongue, but there was no telling what was going on beneath the surface with this woman sometimes. And now she'd surely seen the worst of it; knew the true extent of his financial difficulties, knew he couldn't even set foot in the town without being accosted and accused of all sorts of wrongdoings against an innocent…well, formerly innocent, woman. If she'd thought the fact he was missing a hand had made him a less than ideal choice of husband, now she had a whole myriad of other reasons to throw into that pot.

God, he wanted a drink about now. He could feel the bottle he'd purchased at the saloon sitting heavily in his coat pocket where he'd stowed it and he wanted nothing more than to just stop the wagon and satisfy the thirst that burned his throat and his heart.

It had been a stupid risk to even set foot in the place, especially when he was with Mrs Swan. But the pay-off, the ability to block out every single bloody awful moment of this day, would be worth it in the end.

He just had to wait until he was alone again. And then it would be fine, because the drink would make him forget everything that had happened. At least for the time until he woke up from his alcohol-induced slumber, that was.

Killian's thoughts were turned so far inward that it took him a while to notice that Henry had resorted to tugging on his sleeve to get his attention. Henry was seated on his left and, by instinct, he wrenched his arm away from the boy, anxious to keep him safe from the hook. Or, at least, that was the reason he'd give after the fact if anybody bothered to question his actions.

The sudden movement made Henry sit back up straighter, but, unlike his mother, he seemed slow to take offence. Rather than lapse into a deep and accusatory silence, he asked "Does it hurt?"

"What?"

"Your arm."

"Oh. Not…no. Not now. Not really." Killian wasn't used to being asked questions about his hand and he certainly wasn't prepared for Henry to reply "That's good." Good was a word few people used about a limb that had been amputated and Killian was inclined to agree that there was nothing good about it.

Henry was of a different opinion. "It would be horrible if it hurt all the time. Or if you lost it. The hook part, I mean. Aunt Regina had a man who stayed in her house and he had a wooden eye and it used to roll away sometimes. The maids hated having to look for it under the furniture and Aunt Regina used to get a little mad, too. She couldn't abide carelessness. Or girls who were unnecessarily squeamish."

Killian was completely at a loss as to how to reply to Henry's story, or to know if a reply was even required. He was intrigued though; the boy seemed to have had an unusual upbringing with this Aunt Regina whose relationship to Mrs Swan was still a little hazy to him. Killian was starting to understand why, perhaps, Henry was taking the move to Kansas in his stride. Or, at the very least, he could see that being on the farm might be a welcome break from a stuffy boarding house full of strange men and ruled over by a rather formidable landlady.

He snuck a look to his left and found that Henry was just smiling at him, as though they were having a pleasant discussion about the weather. Somehow that didn't make things any easier for Killian; it had been such a long time since anyone had attempted to engage him in what might be termed pleasant conversation that he still had no response.

Henry didn't seem to need one. "She liked her apple tree though. I wanted to show you we had seeds for one, see?" There was movement on the left as Henry held up a small paper packet for Killian's perusal. "Mama said we could plant them, and then it will be like home."

That statement just confused Killian further, as most things about Mrs Swan seemed to. He had expected, especially after the stony silence and black looks which had been her sole response to him since the morning, that she would be far from thinking of the farm as any home of hers. He didn't quite know what to make of her on-going quiet resolve to make a life here, with him. And he didn't understand why she was casting worried glances in Henry's direction, now, as though the apple tree was supposed to be some secret. As if she would stay on the farm, but he somehow wouldn't know.

Maybe she was planning on getting him to leave?

It almost made him want to go back to town and face down the Tinker's Belle again because at least he could understand what her point was. Mrs Swan was a bundle of contradictions and Henry was something else altogether, his relentless conversation a clear contrast to his mother's silence.

He watched the road ahead and wondered if it would always be like this; if they would continue on as slightly antagonistic strangers with only Henry between them to broker any kind of peace. Killian pondered just how long it would be before Henry tired of that role and struck out on his own.

He very much hoped it wouldn't come to that point because he did not think he would be able to placate Mrs Swan if she'd just watched Henry disappear over the horizon.

And Killian, once again, realised how terribly and utterly unsuited he was to being part of a marriage, part of a family, part of _anything_ that involved other people. He wasn't only responsible for the welfare of Mrs Swan and Henry, and he'd done a poor job of that so far, given the morning's debacle in the store when he'd practically had to beg Miss Lucas for credit just so there'd be something to eat. He was also, he now saw, responsible somewhat for the emotional wellbeing of the woman he'd married in such a rush of bravado.

The problem was that he did not have the faintest idea how to accomplish such a feat as keeping her happy. Her dirty looks told him how much he was failing at his task, but he had no clue as to how to change that. Killian had some idea of courtship; he knew, in theory at least, what was expected if you wooed a woman, and he realised that respectable women were different to…well, the other women he might have known in the past.

But somehow he had skipped straight over that part in his relationship with Mrs Swan. And now he had no idea which of the brave fronts he usually put up to hide the cracks in his soul would be most appealing to her. Maybe none of them would. He definitely suspected that she wouldn't be as easy to charm as Miss Lucas.

He had started on the back foot with Mrs Swan and he looked likely to stay there for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately for her, the raw wound that was Liam's death was too new to cover up with an approximation of a suitable husband, as he covered up the stump of his arm with an approximation of a hand.

Henry's voice broke through his reverie. "So…you'll like it when we have apples? Won't you?"

"Aye. I will."

Mrs Swan did not turn her head in his direction when they returned to the farm, bustling inside as soon as she could, taking some of their purchases with her. By the time he walked inside the cabin himself, there was no sign of her. The box she'd carried was on the table and the rickety, makeshift door to the bedroom – the one Liam had hastily erected only a week before – was closed.

Killian couldn't even pretend to be surprised by that. He carried the last box inside and then headed back out to see to the horses, somewhat thankful to have something to keep him busy.

Mrs Swan seemed to feel the same way. When he passed around the front of the cabin a little while later he could spy her through the door sweeping the floor with a grim determination, wielding the broom as thought it was a weapon that would vanquish everything in her path. He was tempted to point out that a dirt floor could only be swept so clean, but the thought crossed Killian's mind that what she really wanted to sweep right out of her life was actually him, so he held his tongue and walked away.

He didn't get far before Henry caught up to him, falling into step as he walked across the yard. He waited to see if Henry had been sent with a message, or if he'd come to question Killian about the rift with Mrs Swan. But if Henry had noticed anything was amiss he was continuing to ignore it in favour of just becoming Killian's shadow.

"What are you doing?" Henry asked after a while.

"I…uh…have some things that I need to do."

"Well, I can do them too, right? Even if I'm going to school tomorrow…I can still help today?"

"I suppose." Killian wasn't entirely certain if he was supposed to keep away from Henry now that Mrs Swan has witnessed the spectacle in the street which spoke volumes about the character and standing of the man she had married. He felt that Mrs Swan might worry about him corrupting her son and figure out some way to keep them apart.

He wondered if that's where the broom would really prove useful to her. As a weapon to guard her son and her home from the likes of himself.

"Mama's cleaning," Henry announced, as though it hadn't been obvious from the furious brushing of Mrs Swan's broom.

"Yes." Killian wondered if Henry would add anything to his statement, but he didn't, which just made Killian think that perhaps Henry had witnessed this behaviour on more than one occasion.

And if perhaps Henry was following him around because he was afraid he was the cause of his mother's obvious ire, and determined to keep out of her way.

"I think it's my fault," Killian said, as they reached the door of the barn. "That she's cleaning everything so…forcefully."

But his words that were meant to bring comfort merely added confusion into the expression Henry wore. "You…you brought all the dirt inside?"

"I…" Killian looked down at Henry, his brow furrowed as he clearly tried to make sense of the adults and their perplexing ways. "Yes," he said, at last. "That would be my doing, lad."

Henry nodded knowledgably. "You should be glad that it's Mama and not Aunt Regina. She didn't like any dirt in the house. She had maids, of course, but she'd still get upset over muddy boots. She said that she might be forced to let strangers into her house, but they didn't have to traipse all the dirt in with them. That was a bridge too far."

Killian looked at Henry thoughtfully. "You didn't mind?" he asked. "Living with the other people in Aunt Regina's house? Not living with your…mother?"

The question seemed to stump Henry greatly. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, before finally fixing his gaze somewhere on the horizon. "I didn't get to mind," he said, his voice not much more than a whisper.

Killian didn't have a ready response to that information, and began to regret he'd asked the question at all. If he felt ill-equipped to be a husband, he was even less suited for this kind of discussion. He'd been curious about the situation Henry had been in; the Aunt Regina he kept mentioning seemed to have a tenuous relationship to Mrs Swan and he wanted to know why she'd entrusted the son she seemed to care so deeply about to this woman. But he didn't want to know the story if it meant distressing Henry in the process.

There was, after all, only so much sweeping that could be done.

"You can help me fix the chicken coop, then. I think some animal's been raiding it at night," he said to Henry, and he watched the boy's face change expression almost instantly.

"Can I?"

"Sure. I could use a hand." If Henry recognised the irony in that statement, he was polite enough not to point it out. Or possibly too excited at the thought of their task. And that excitement proved to be a problem once they actually got as far as replacing some of the wood that had rotted away at the back of the coop. Killian attempted to get Henry to hold the nail for him, a hook not being the best substitute for a hand in that situation. But Henry's inability to hold the nail in place, and his habit of flinching every time the hammer got near, was going to end up with them in a serious accident if they weren't careful.

"Maybe you should try with the hammer," Killian suggested, holding it out to him. He reasoned that Henry was likely to feel a little safer wielding the hammer himself, and therefore the success rate for the hammer connecting with the nail would be considerably greater.

Killian realised quite quickly that he may have been overly optimistic. Henry's enthusiasm for his task didn't match his skill and the hammer connected with his thumb more times than it met the head of the nail. He tried to be stoic about the repeated knocks, but a particularly nasty bang made him drop the hammer with a yelp of pain. "Ow!"

It was at that precise moment that Mrs Swan appeared around the side of the coop, the frown she was already wearing deepening dramatically at the sight of Henry clutching his hand in pain. "What happened?"

Henry didn't immediately answer, no doubt sensing that whatever he came up with, it wasn't going to satisfy his mother. Instead he looked at Killian, no doubt assuming he'd have some way to make it all seem as though nothing untoward was taking place.

And it was, after all, perfectly normal to struggle with a hammer until you eventually mastered it. Killian couldn't think of anyone who'd escaped without the odd knock to a finger or thumb. Indeed Liam, when hanging the door in the cabin, had managed to administer a very large blow to the side of his hand and the cursing that followed it had almost been comical until the point when his eyes had met Killian's and he'd looked embarrassed for the way he was acting over a slightly bruised hand which could, quite clearly, never compare to a missing one.

Killian had stopped watching Liam at that time and left him alone in the cabin to finish.

"Henry's been helping me," he informed Mrs Swan.

"I can see that." Her words sounded as though she was talking through teeth pressed firmly together. "But I can also see he's injured."

"Not badly, Mama. See, it's not even bleeding." He held his hand out to Mrs Swan who examined it closely.

"As you see," Killian added. "The boy hasn't suffered any permanent damage while in my care."

"I suppose I should be grateful," she said, sounding not at all grateful. "That you're taking better care of him than you do of yourself." Mrs Swan directed a rather pointed glance at Killian's hook, before bending her head to examine Henry again.

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Killian did not know how to respond to Mrs Swan's comment. It had been thrown at him in the heat of the moment, sure, but he was so unused to other people acknowledging the fact his hand was missing, let alone accusing him of being careless enough to injure himself, that he didn't have a ready retort. All he could do was shrug and continue watching her closely, waiting for some kind of clue as to how to proceed.

But Mrs Swan didn't offer any. She was far too preoccupied with Henry and Henry's potential injuries to pay any attention to Killian and the fact he was openly staring at her now. The thing he found most perplexing, he decided, were these flashes of someone else, someone other than the woman who pretended to be grateful, who flinched when he lost his temper, who pursed her lips and looked completely unamused when she had to accompany him into town. This woman, with the determined set to her jaw and the flash of fire in her green eyes, this was the woman who really interested him and he found himself half-hoping that she'd appear again, and half-terrified that she would.

For one thing, he suspected that a tongue-lashing from her would be ten times worse than anything he had suffered from the Tinker's Belle. And it would be infinitely more humiliating, somehow, coming from Mrs Swan; the litany of his transgressions read to him by the person he least wanted to know what he'd done.

"There is some luncheon. Inside. Just bread and cheese," she said suddenly, having examined Henry thoroughly enough to realise that he still had all his fingers and thumbs attached. "I was going to do something hot…but I have to confess that I find that stove to be nothing but troublesome." Her eyes rested on Killian and he suspected that the stove wasn't the only thing she was currently troubled by.

"Aye. It is a little tempestuous. But I'm sure you'll end up on better terms with it."

Mrs Swan fixed him with a narrow-eyed gaze. "I am not sure that it can be redeemed," she said, before turning on her heel and fleeing the scene.

Killian watched her figure retreating towards the cabin, feeling something that could only be termed regret. He still believed that the impression he had made with Mrs Swan was irredeemable, but somehow it had been better when it had been met by only her shocked silence. This, this tacit acknowledgment of his unsuitability as a husband, a position he was clearly expected to second, this was a hundred times worse. Worse than being called to account in the street by some half-wild saloon girl, worse than Milah and what came afterwards, worse than losing Liam, worse, even, than having Liam and having to face his quiet pity on each and every occasion when the loss of Killian's hand came to the forefront.

None of that compared to watching Mrs Swan walk away and understanding that she knew now what he was. It was the same sinking feeling that had begun on the day Liam had hung the door and everything that had happened that morning had just compounded it. He wasn't fit to be around a woman and her child; not with the darkness he carried wherever he went. Liam had known it, must have known it. His plans that he'd kept so close to his chest, his worried glances in Killian's direction, had all been due to his desire to keep his brother away from the new family he hoped to fashion.

And Killian couldn't blame him in the least. It was what any decent man would do, and Liam was nothing but decent. He would have saved Mrs Swan the humiliation of watching her new husband begging for credit, being accosted in the street and the looks…the pitying looks Killian had seen her receive from the Sheriff and the schoolteacher. If he could have spared her anything, it would have been those.

But he couldn't undo it now. All he could do was count down the hours until the day was done and he could open his new bottle of whiskey and wait for the blackness to take hold of him once again.

And it wasn't like he hadn't had to face the emptiness of the path he'd chosen before. He should be used to it by now; used to the knowledge that he would never have anything good in his life. Secure in the knowledge that everything – _everything_ – that he thought he could be had been ripped away from him the day that Milah died.

He took a deep breath and steered his mind away from the dark thoughts that threatened to take him over to focus on the task at hand.

"Well, Henry." Killian turned to where Henry was still rooted to the spot. "Shall we finish up before we eat?"

"I suppose so. But maybe you should hold the nail and I should have the hammer? I think you'd be better at holding it than I am." Henry smiled brightly, seemingly confident that his suggestion was going to prove to be the best solution.

Killian knew that he could ill-afford to injure his only hand, but at the same time he deeply desired not to encounter any further wrath from Mrs Swan should Henry do himself any more harm. There was really no option. "Aye. But you'll have to try really hard to hit the bloody nail and not me."

"I can do that. I think I'm getting really good at it now!"

"You are, Henry. Just…hit the nail, though."

"Yes, sir. I promise. I'll try."

"Good lad."

Killian waited for the inevitable blow from the hammer Henry was now wielding and wished that he could so easily make promises, at least to Mrs Swan. But perhaps, if nothing else, he could follow Henry's example, and try.

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N Once again, thank you all so, so much for the response to this story. I'm sorry I haven't replied to any reviews but, please be assured, they are appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I make no claim to the recognisable characters in this story.**

Emma had learnt a long time ago that it did no good to dwell on your situation, especially when you had little power to change it. She was here, she was married to him. End of story.

And it wasn't exactly a happy ending. That much was abundantly clear from the visit they'd made into Storybrooke that morning. The words 'marry in haste, repent at leisure' rolled around Emma's head and she wanted nothing more than to shut that annoying little voice up as quickly as possible.

So she settled for doing rather than thinking. She packed away the new provisions as best she could, and then set to sweeping the floor. It was a rather thankless task, given that the floor was nothing more than packed down dirt, but it made her feel a little bit better.

Emma was so consumed in her task that she almost avoided seeing Mr Jones as he peered at her curiously through the open door of the cabin. She remained focused on the broom, however, and not on his eyes as he frowned in her direction.

And, really, he had no right to cast those sorts of glances around. Emma wasn't someone who would have campaigned for temperance by any means, and yet she was still dismayed at the incontrovertible evidence piling up that Mr Jones drank. Drink made people unpredictable; she knew that first-hand. It made men carry out actions that they would later regret. Like consort with saloon girls and whatever else Mr Jones may have considered a suitable past-time prior to Emma's arrival. Gambling, most likely.

It was a sorry state of affairs, and Emma was sorely tempted to give in and wallow in self-pity. But she refrained, because what good would it really do? Sure, you could repent in leisure all you liked, but that saying assumed you had the leisure time to spare for it. It was better, surely, that she merely set herself to work and try hard to keep the household running, as she'd promised she would.

And she was determined to keep her promises.

She finished sweeping and gave the stove a wary glance. She cleared out the ashes and lit a fire but didn't feel much like doing battle with the thing in order to make something for luncheon. Instead she pulled out some of the recently purchased food and placed it on the table. There was no serving ware, of course, in amongst the small collection of dishes that belonged in the cabin, but, after some careful deliberation, Emma retrieved a small silver tray from her trunk and placed the cheese on that before heading outside to find where Mr Jones and Henry had disappeared to.

Emma found them behind the chicken coop, Henry clutching his hand in pain and, in a flash, all thoughts about the precariousness of her situation were banished as she was consumed by nothing anger and guilt. Her desire to hurt the stupid man who had allowed Henry to hurt himself was almost frightening in its intensity. It was probably just lucky for Mr Jones that the hammer had been placed far beyond her reach and that she was too busy examining Henry anyway, checking that he was still intact because she couldn't bear it if she had waited all this time to have him and then he ended up broken.

He would never have been allowed anywhere near a hammer when he was in Regina's care.

But, even if Emma held back from actual physical violence she still couldn't stop herself lashing out with her tongue, reminding Mr Jones that he carried injuries far worse than Henry's, probably caused by his own carelessness. Most likely he was drinking when he lost his hand. Perhaps, she thought, he'd even been drinking now; a few mouthfuls snuck in while she was in the cabin. How could she possibly leave a man like that in charge of her son? He was nothing but a drunkard, a wastrel, a careless, thoughtless person and the last kind of man she wanted to be joined in matrimony with.

She heard Henry's assertions that he was fine but it took a few moments and several deep breaths for her to dampen down the fire burning inside her. Everything – _everything_ – was spiralling out of Emma's control and she feared that if she didn't stop herself now it would all come flooding out and there would be every chance she would drown Mr Jones in a torrent of abuse.

Although Emma did wonder, briefly, if that would make her feel a little better. She remembered, with mixed emotions, what Regina's household was like and the terrible occasions when Regina let fly with her tongue due to some transgression by a maid, or worse, by one of the guests. Emma could guess, even then, that running a boarding house was not how Regina had planned to live out her days, and giving vent to her fury was her way of showing them all that she still controlled her world.

But it didn't make Regina happy. And Emma suspected that however much she desired the release that only a good harangue could bring the same would be true for her as well.

She held her tongue, and proffered lunch, allowing herself a minor complaint about the stove that Mr Jones answered quite evenly.

_Perhaps the alcohol dulls his temper?_ Emma pondered this as she walked away from Henry and Mr Jones. She paused as she reached the corner of the cabin and turned back to watch them, from a safe distance this time.

It was, she told herself, because she was still concerned about leaving Henry in Mr Jones' sole charge and not because she felt guilty for the barb she threw at him, the one that made him wear the expression he'd sported while being accosted by the girl in green. When he had looked beaten and bowed and far older than he should.

She shouldn't feel guilty for that because, goodness' knows, he deserved her ire after the spectacle that morning. But she could not help herself and the guilt came to her anyway.

Mixed with just a tiny bit of pleasure at the thought the girl in green certainly won't be seeking out his company any time soon. Not after the way she'd spoken to him. And while Emma may have been the cause of the ruction between them, she didn't believe she would feel at all guilty for that.

She watched as Henry picked up the hammer again and resisted the very real urge to go over and tell him, in no uncertain terms, to put it back on the ground. But she was trying very hard to be the mother of an almost-grown boy and she doubted that her words will be welcomed by Henry; not after he'd tried so hard to dismiss her concern just moments before.

He no doubt wanted to impress Mr Jones and she could not fault him for that. They each had to find their own way of making the best of their situation and she thought that at least Henry was smiling and no one had lost a wooden eye.

She'd forgotten Regina had ever had that guest until Henry had told the story on the wagon ride back from town. It was something he'd shared with her on one of her all too rare visits to see him on a day off from Dr Hopper's. And now, of course, he was sharing it with Mr Jones.

It hurt, a little, to realise that at one time, and not that long ago, she was just as much a stranger to Henry as Mr Jones was now.

But she was distracted from her sombre thoughts by the sight of Henry wielding the hammer, two-handed while Mr Jones held the nail against a board on the chicken coop. Henry's aim appeared to be a little off the mark and she could see Mr Jones wince as the hammer approached, his shoulders rising almost to his ears as he no doubt anticipated the hammer connecting with his hand.

Thankfully, Henry missed. Or, rather, his hammer found its true target and Mr Jones' hand was spared, although his shoulders did not relax until the moment when the nail was placed firmly enough into the board that he could let go and merely watch Henry finish the task.

And, when the nailing was complete, she watched as Henry's face broke into a wide smile and, although she could only see Mr Jones' profile, he appeared to be smiling as well. It was their own little private moment, and she felt like an intruder into it, but she still couldn't look away.

It didn't make any sense, she decided, after watching them begin the same process again with another nail. Someone as clearly careless as Mr Jones shouldn't show such care for a boy he barely knew, a boy he'd met the day before. And the fact he did, Emma reasoned, should make her feel more comfortable with the knowledge that she was stuck here for the foreseeable future.

But it didn't, somehow. Emma was still wary of Mr Jones, still wondered when his temper would show through again. In some ways it would be easier if that side of him was on display all the time. This was far worse; the endless twilight of never quite being sure if you're safe or not.

She had been down that road before and wasn't in any particular hurry to live her life on eggshells again. Not just to dance around some man who was so careless with himself and with others.

Still, the meal she had provided them was eaten, but, had Henry not been present, it would have been a silent affair. He was the only one who contributed to the conversation, providing a, quite literally, blow by blow account of the work on the chicken coop. Mr Jones appeared to be content to let Henry do all the talking and Emma was afraid to comment or ask questions, fearing that any attempt to bring up the hammering would be taken as another criticism of Mr Jones.

Although she could not deny she was still a little shaken by the experience of seeing Henry hurt, however minor the actual injury turned out to be. Emma wasn't sure if the responsibility of motherhood weighed so heavily on every woman with a child, or if her particular circumstances made her more susceptible to guilt and worry. But, however the feelings had arrived, she found it difficult to subsequently chase them away and her concern over Henry twisted up with the worry over whether Mr Jones was to be trusted with him.

She didn't eat much, despite missing breakfast that morning.

Mr Jones' appetite had not been quashed, however, and she was thankful that he was too busy eating to make much eye contact with her. He did examine the tray she had placed on the table, tracing the pattern with his finger, and she half-expected that he might question its provenance, but nothing was said.

Clearly they were far past the point of making idle chit-chat around the table. And she shouldn't care, or, at least, she believed she shouldn't care. She hadn't married him for the opportunities for stimulating conversation, after all. She'd married him so Henry would have somewhere to live.

But, all the same, the silence was a little disappointing. It merely intensified the very great chasm that existed between herself and Mr Jones and it appeared that not even the provision of food could breach it now.

Obviously he was tired of her already. And, really, why shouldn't he be? He may have burned his bridges with the girl in green but, no doubt, there were a dozen other girls hidden away inside the saloon who could be bought just as easily.

Except that money was clearly a problem for Mr Jones, and perhaps that was the cause of the argument in the street, rather than any perceived slight over a new wife. Emma desperately wished that she had never seen the pair of them, although she knew that ignorance was hardly bliss. No, it was better than she knew what she was dealing with rather than living under the illusion that she was here because he valued her in any way.

When the meal had been eaten and cleared away she watched as Henry hovered near the door, turning from Mr Jones to herself and back again. She wasn't surprised that he was feeling torn between them, not after they had spent most of the day studiously ignoring each other, save for a few brief interactions filled with tension and simmering anger. It was hardly the calm, peaceful home that she'd imagined she was giving Henry when she agreed to come to Kansas.

The cabin suddenly felt airless and close and she grabbed a pail, hoping that the pretext of fetching more water would suffice as a reason for stepping outside.

She made it to the pump at the end of the yard and then found the process of actually drawing the water quite cathartic. Certainly the ache in her arms when she'd finished helped to banish the constant sense of unease that she felt anytime Mr Jones was within her sight. He infuriated her more than anyone she'd ever met, and yet she still wished for...she wasn't sure. Some sign from him that she was more than just the woman his brother had left him with.

By the time the pail was full, Emma's thoughts were dark. Her annoyance at, not just Mr Jones, but at herself as well, settled over her head like a dark cloud on a winter's afternoon.

Distracted as she was by her thoughts and with the water she was carrying, it was a shock when she realised that Mr Jones had been watching her, and that she'd nearly walked straight into him on her return journey back to the cabin.

Anger and indignation rose in her throat again and she covered it up by keeping her eyes solely on the pail and the water which threatened to slosh over the edge on account of her sudden stop. As long as none spilled, she thought, it would be alright. She could take a deep breath and find out what it was Mr Jones needed.

But some water did escape onto the dry ground and, when she finally found her voice Emma heard that her words were tinged with the anger she'd failed to push from the forefront of her mind. "Did you need anything, Mr Jones?"

It wasn't that she wanted to have an argument in the middle of the yard, but the tension was becoming draining and, quite frankly, it was all Mr Jones' fault anyway. So any harshness in her tone was warranted, as far as Emma was concerned.

He didn't immediately reply, so she dared to sneak a look at his face while she waited for a response. She expected to see the black look he threw at her in the heat of his anger earlier that morning, but he looked far from angry with her. One heavy eyebrow was raised and his lips curved upwards slightly, almost as though he was amused by her.

Emma didn't find anything remotely amusing about the act of carrying water across a yard.

"I was simply going to ask if you wanted to know where I'd be, in case you wanted to watch me again," he remarked after the silence had become drawn-out to the point of being uncomfortable.

"Watch you?"

"I saw you. Before. You didn't do a very good job of hiding." Now Mr Jones was making no attempt to keep the amusement from his face.

Emma bristled under his gaze. It was all very well for him to find these things amusing but he clearly didn't understand what her situation was like, what her situation had always been like. Thrust into someone else's house, trying to work out what the rules were, trying, desperately, to understand the people she'd suddenly found herself relying on…_of course_ she was going to observe them. How else would she learn anything?

And, really, he had no reason to expect anything less. Between the girl in the street and the alcohol and the injury to Henry, there was nothing – _nothing_ – about him which didn't reek of carelessness, of thoughtlessness, of the possibility that he could casually ruin everything she'd worked so hard for.

"I wasn't attempting to hide," Emma replied, feeling the heat that burned behind her eyes threatening to show in her face. Did he think she could forget the precariousness of her position simply because she found him appealing to look at? That he could charm her as easily as he charmed the girl in the shop into giving him credit?

Her attraction to Mr Jones was something Emma was certain she would never confess to the man himself. She could barely even acknowledge in her own mind that, no matter how worried she was about the moral character of the man she'd married, there was something about his outward appearance that threatened to spark the embers of desire inside of her.

Mr Jones shrugged, but the smile on his face remained. "I suppose it's no mind. After all, we're married. You should be able to look all you want."

"I was merely checking on Henry," she retorted, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible and not as indignant as she felt. "He had been injured, after all."

Mr Jones' expression lost some of its joviality at Emma's comment and she briefly regretted her words. But, she reminded herself, he had brought up the topic. And Henry had, indeed, been injured, however inconsequentially. She wasn't saying anything that wasn't true.

Although there were, perhaps, a few things that she was keeping to herself.

Emma waited to see what would happen next. Mr Jones was still standing in front of her and she didn't much like the idea of obviously stepping around him. She hoped that he would move of his own volition, and quickly, before things became tense again.

Right at that moment she had no desire to face his temper again, fearing that she might very well lose her own. It had been a trying day, and that was, quite frankly, putting it mildly.

But Mr Jones kept searching her face, as though there was a book, or a map, printed into her skin. It made Emma deeply uncomfortable and she turned her attention to the pail of water, ostensibly so she could shift its weight from one hand to the other, just as he said "You know, you could try something new…and trust me."

The words made something snap inside of Emma and the threads of her temper, already dangerously frayed, gave way and fell apart completely. His continuing inability to see this situation for what it really was made Emma see red in a way she hadn't for years and years.

"I am not certain what you believe this is," she hissed, knowing her voice sounded venomous but feeling it preferable to the other alternative, which was to shout her accusations as loudly as she could in the hope that her point would be made. "But I have done nothing _but_ trust you since we came here. Into whose care have I committed myself and my son? Mr Jones, I simply cannot take a chance that I have been wrong about you."

She hoped that would shame him and make him see that none of this was her doing. It was his own carelessness, or, at least, the potential to be so, that made it imperative that Emma be watchful and wary and concern herself with whether Henry was in danger.

But her words did not seem to have that effect on the man. Instead of looking contrite his expression softened to one of concern. "You think I would let something happen to you or to Henry?" he asked.

"I…" Emma wasn't sure how to answer that question. Telling the truth might set off a chain of hurtful recriminations that would irreparably damage whatever relationship she had at the moment with the man she'd married.

But she didn't think she could refuse to answer him either. "I have to be careful," she replied in the end. It wasn't much of an answer, but at least it was somewhat the truth even if Emma left out the part about how careful didn't always equate to safe in these situations.

It was a lesson she'd learnt early in life.

She watched Mr Jones, closely, to see what he would do next. She half-expected that his temper would flare up again, a match for hers and more. But there was no flash of anger in his blue eyes, there was…concern.

And that was the dreadful moment when Emma knew what was coming. He would open his mouth and protest that he would never let anything happen to her or to Henry, that she could trust him, that he _cared_.

But none of it would be true, just as it had never been true when people had promised her such things before. And she had no intention of being led down the garden path by a man again.

So, instead, she adopted a tactic that had served her well in the past; strike out in the aim of inflicting hurt before anyone hurt her.

"But you're right," she continued, despite the fact that Mr Jones had opened his mouth and clearly had something to say to her. "We are married, and I feel that I should…apologise…for the fact that it has obviously caused some friction between you and your friend."

"My…friend?" The concern in Mr Jones' face had been wiped away by confusion.

"Yes. The woman, this morning. In town. It was…more than obvious that there is now some bad feeling there, and I am sorry if I'm the cause of it." Emma kept her gaze steady, waiting to see what Mr Jones' reaction would be. It was a risky manoeuvre but, right then, Emma was certain that she would rather face the man angry than concerned and on the verge of making promises he will never, ever keep.

But Mr Jones didn't become angry, although the look that crossed his face as his jaw tightened and his lips pressed together was dark. For a moment she thought that he would say something to her, refute his relationship with the woman, perhaps even stick to his original plan and reiterate that she and Henry had nothing to fear on his watch, but he didn't.

Once again, he simply walked away from her.

And Emma should have felt triumphant, she thought. Or, at least, pleased. Her plan had worked, she had deflected his concern and maintained some distance between them. A reminder that, although they may be husband and wife, they are not friends and she would be watching him carefully for any sign that he will hurt her.

But she felt nothing but sad and angry, mostly at herself. The behaviours of her past seemed doomed to repeat themselves endlessly and now she was trapped here, lashing out at the man she was tied to for the rest of her life.

Mr Jones disappeared from sight after that and Emma found that Henry was in her charge for the afternoon. It soon became patently clear that he would rather have been with Mr Jones, however, as he continually gazed out into the horizon hoping, no doubt, to catch a glimpse of the man he so admired.

Sadly, all Emma could offer him was work in the vegetable garden they had located behind the barn. It appeared to need a considerable amount of weeding, although gardens were not an area where Emma felt particularly confident and, several times, she waivered on whether she was discarding a weed or something entirely more edible.

Henry was no help on those matters, preferring to ask whether they could plant the seeds for the apple tree. As much as she would have liked to concentrate on the garden, especially given her slightly exciting discovery that there were a few potatoes and carrots hidden in amongst the rows of plants, Emma was also desperate to keep Henry happy.

After they had ventured, Emma a little timidly perhaps, into the barn to retrieve a spade, Henry picked out the location for the tree, close beside the cabin, and then set to work trying to dig a hole. It took a while before he'd admit to his mother that the work was harder than he'd expected, and a few minutes more before he allowed Emma to take over.

She wished she knew how deep you were meant to plant apple seeds, but it wasn't something she'd ever needed to know before. Regina might have been a valuable source of information, but Emma was hardly likely to admit that to Henry.

Henry had no such qualms, however. "Aunt Regina would be able to tell us if we're doing this correctly," he announced, as Emma stopped digging and braced herself on the spade.

"I think we've probably got a deep enough hole now." Emma kept her voice low and hoped Henry didn't notice that she was refusing to talk about Regina. That part of their lives was gone now, dead and buried along with the woman herself.

Although there was no denying that the apple tree, should it actually grow, would be a constant reminder.

When the seeds were in the ground, and they'd sprinkled some water over the earth they had laid on top of them, Emma and Henry stood silently and regarded their work, marking this as some solemn occasion of remembrance. It was an odd feeling, Emma thought, to be so inextricably linked to someone who, in other circumstances, would have meant nothing to her. It was only the fact that she kept Henry for so long which prolonged her acquaintance with Regina and made the other woman a large part of her life for ten years.

If she had never given birth on Regina's kitchen floor then things would have been considerably different, she reasoned.

But the past was the past, and could not be changed no matter how much Emma might have wished it so. And there were many moments from her past that she would alter if someone gave her the chance to do so.

But not Henry. Never Henry.

"What are you thinking about, Mama?" Henry's voice broke into her reverie.

"I am…considering whether or not the seeds will need more water." She looked sideways at Henry and, from the way his face scrunched at her words, she strongly suspected that he was more than aware of the fact she was far from telling the truth. But she had no desire to share all of her secrets with him, and no intention of elaborating on her statement.

After a while Henry looked as though he was satisfied with her answer and he nodded a couple of times and went back to his solemn contemplation of the disturbed earth. The silence wasn't awkward, but it was all-consuming and it did make the scuffing sound of Mr Jones' boots on the earth as he rounded the side of the cabin louder and more sudden than they might otherwise have been.

He looked a little surprised, Emma thought, to find Henry and herself standing this way, staring at what resembled bare earth. There was a moment of awkward silence which Emma expected Henry to fill, but he seemed far too interested in the two adults who were now standing facing each other. In the end Mr Jones spoke first, holding his hook in front of him and allowing Emma to see that there was something dangling from it.

"Rabbit?" she asked, a little stupidly.

"I did, uh…promise," Mr Jones replied, looking away from her.

"You did?" Emma tried to think back to when that might have occurred, but she couldn't remember it at all and, of all the promises she wanted him desperately to keep, the one about bringing her a dead rabbit wasn't something she'd pinned her hopes on.

"To…eat?" he ventured slowly, as though Emma might be from some strange and foreign land where the customs were different. And, certainly, rabbit was not often served at Dr Hopper's house and he employed a cook for several nights a week anyway, meaning Emma was mostly spared kitchen duty, but even so.

She did understand what the rabbit was for.

But she held her tongue rather than tell Mr Jones this. "Thank you?" she replied, although she inadvertently made it sound like a question which left her disappointed in her own reaction. She had been intending to return to her earlier tactic of gratitude hoping, perhaps forlornly, that this time it will provoke a more pleasing reaction from Mr Jones.

Emma was almost completely certain that sounding as though she is unsure whether he should be thanked will not have the desired effect.

Mr Jones nodded, and then there was another awkward moment as they both regarded the rabbit he was still holding between them. Emma was unsure if she should try to remove it from his hook, or wait for Mr Jones to do so, and he appeared to be waiting for her to do something.

In the end Mr Jones lifted it from the hook and passed it across to Emma. It was warm and limp in her hand and she resisted the urge to feel a little sorry for the poor thing. She couldn't afford to act like the soft, city woman she feared Mr Jones thought she was.

But, in the absence of making a comment about the rabbit's demise, Emma was stuck with nothing else to say. Mr Jones, for once, hadn't run away from her as soon as he could, and she wondered if there was some other remark she was supposed to make in response to being handed a dead rabbit.

Emma thought that even Regina, who was usually an expert on what to do in most social occasions, might have struggled to find the correct way to address this situation.

And then she realised why it seemed so quiet. Henry, who she had expected to break the news of the planting of the apple tree seeds, was standing idly by, merely observing herself and Mr Jones, a slight frown on his face.

Emma wasn't at all sure what might have provoked the reaction from Henry, nor what she could do to mollify him. Perhaps he felt that she hadn't been sufficiently grateful for the rabbit and wanted her to say something else to Mr Jones?

"I'm sure it will be delicious," she ventured, slowly.

"I'll leave that up to you," he replied, and then, this time, he did leave her standing there, still holding the rabbit, and with Henry now scowling outright.

"I'm certain it will be…edible," Emma told him, hoping that she wasn't later contradicted by the meal she managed to prepare.

Henry sighed, and continued scowling, not making eye contact with Emma.

"Henry? What on earth is the matter?"

His head twisted to look at her. "I just…Mama, did you say?"

"Say, what?" Emma worried what it was she'd left out of her conversation with Mr Jones. Perhaps Henry's years with Regina had left him with better manners that she could ever have herself and he was privy to the correct way to thank someone when they handed you a dead animal.

Henry pursed his lips and looked annoyed. "Say that I couldn't help get the rabbit."

"No, I…no I didn't."

Henry did not look appeased. "You told him I was going to school, and now I didn't get to learn to shoot." The accusation in his tone couldn't be missed; he thought that, once again, Emma had made things difficult with Mr Jones and that she'd deprived Henry of some pleasure in the process.

"But we planted the apple tree." Emma wished she didn't sound as desperate as she did, but she was struggling to understand this sudden outburst of Henry's. He'd been fine up until this moment, excited about the things going on around him. She didn't know why killing some poor rabbit was that important to him.

Except that he thought she'd ruined something and that made her heart feel hot and hard in her chest.

Henry sighed, loud enough that Emma could hear. "Yes, we did Mama," he agreed, but he sounded so sad about that fact that she could barely swallow the lump in her throat.

"I had better get started on this," Emma replied, quickly, holding up the rabbit and turning back towards the cabin. The day was simply getting worse and worse; Mr Jones was a lost cause and she couldn't change that, Henry was mad with her and she didn't know how to fix that, nothing was going as it should and she was stuck trying to figure out the best way to strip a rabbit of its skin.

Right at that moment, she'd almost swap places with the thing.

Preparing the rabbit was not an elegant process, and Emma ended up covered in far too much blood and gore for her own liking, but neither Mr Jones nor Henry came to see the state she was in and she had achieved her aim of being able to actually get the meat from the rabbit into the cooking pot.

She cleaned herself as best she could, removed her soiled apron and waited to see who showed up for dinner.

Henry arrived first, leaving Emma to assume that Mr Jones had fled their presence again, or perhaps gone to drown his sorrows. Either way, unless she wanted to go in search of him herself, or send Henry on such an errand, she was stuck waiting.

It wasn't too long before he stepped inside the cabin, looking far happier than the still-sullen Henry did. Probably it was the prospect of the food she was cooking that made him so, Emma reasoned, but, all the same, it was nice to have someone in the room who didn't look at her like she was some kind of villainess.

Henry, when pressed, said grace, but remained silent after that, poking his dinner around the plate rather than eating it. After a few minutes Mr Jones clearly noticed the difference in Henry's demeanour from previous meals as well. Emma watched as his eating slowed and he sent a few worried glances in Henry's direction, followed by a questioning look at Emma.

She wasn't sure what to make of Mr Jones' concern for Henry. It was bad enough that she already felt hurt at the way Henry was behaving, she really didn't need Mr Jones throwing concerned glances her way and expecting her to make it all better when she didn't know how.

Clearly, being a parent looked a lot easier when you weren't one yourself. Of course Mr Jones would think she'd have some magic word or phrase she could say to make everything alright for Henry again.

But she had no ideas on the subject at all.

Dinner continued on, in silence. Emma wasn't completely unhappy with the way the rabbit had turned out, but she chewed her food with a dogged determination to not accidentally starve herself rather than out of any great enjoyment for the meal.

Mr Jones had seconds.

Henry began to eat, slowly, chewing every mouthful for a long time.

Unsure of what else to do to remedy the situation, and feeling a little exposed by Mr Jones' rather searching looks across the table at her, Emma spoke up. "I…did say."

Henry frowned, and put his spoon down. "You did?"

Emma could see Mr Jones frowning as well, trying to make sense of the conversation, but she avoided his gaze and carried on. "I did. I…didn't realise you were so set on going with Mr Jones, and, after what happened with the hammer…Henry, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be around a gun."

She risked a glance at Mr Jones and saw a flash of understanding in his face. "But, Mama," Henry protested. "I wanted to learn."

"I know," she replied, as gently as she could. "But there's still time to learn lots of things here. You don't have to rush to do everything."

Mr Jones nodded. "Aye. Perhaps next time, lad." He turned to look at Emma. "I'll make sure you don't do anything rash."

Henry's face lit up and Emma's heart sunk. So much for keeping him safe. "I promise I'll be careful," Henry said, to both of them.

"Of course you will," Mr Jones agreed, but Emma remained silent, unsure of whether she'd done the right thing. Certainly Henry's mood, and appetite, had been greatly improved by her falsehood, but she'd now ended up almost agreeing to something she would never have allowed under other circumstances.

She felt a little manipulated, and the fact that Mr Jones gave her a small smile across the table didn't really make her feel any better. He had, after all, gone hunting without any thought of whether to take Henry or not, and Emma had been stuck taking the fall for the decision.

"We'll see," she murmured, but her words fell on deaf ears. Henry had regained his good humour and was now enjoying an animated conversation with Mr Jones about where the best place to shoot a rabbit was. Emma busied herself with clearing away the remains of their meal and then, when she was without any further tasks and Henry had moved on to sharing stories from his cowboy book with Mr Jones, she gathered her shawl and stepped outside in the hope that the cooler twilight air would clear her head.

It did not, and she found that she was once again alone with her thoughts, except that this night, instead of dwelling on the fact she'd be sharing a bed with Mr Jones, she was concerned with Henry, and the prospect of sharing him with Mr Jones.

She did not realise how close her impromptu stroll around the yard had taken her towards the hut where Mr Jones resided, until she heard his footsteps behind her. Emma turned around just as Mr Jones said "Was there something you wanted, Mrs Swan?"

There were many things Emma wanted right then, but she doubted he could provide any of them. "No. I was merely getting some air."

She hadn't expected much of a response from Mr Jones to her remark, and had started to walk away when he suddenly said "Good."

"Good?"

"I was concerned you had come to…remonstrate with me again." Emma must have looked as perplexed as she felt at Mr Jones' comment, and he continued. "About Henry."

"For leaving him behind?" Mr Jones nodded. "I fear only Henry would hold you accountable for that, although he thinks that I was the culprit."

In the fading light of the day Emma watched as Mr Jones considered what to say next. "I did not think you would allow him to accompany me."

"No. You were correct. I would most certainly not have wanted Henry anywhere near a gun. Hammers have proven dangerous enough today." At that Mr Jones gave a small smile and Emma had to resist, quite strongly, the urge to smile back. After all, Henry being injured was hardly a thing to be happy about.

"But now he believes that you will allow him to accompany me in the future," Mr Jones pointed out.

It was on the tip of Emma's tongue to assure him that it would not be the case, and to reiterate, once again, that she was Henry's mother and would make all the decisions concerning his welfare. But the temptation to have a conversation with someone regarding her fears for Henry, to pretend that Mr Jones actually cared about them was just too great and Emma continued speaking.

"He does, and it was not the outcome I hoped for but I fear that I have been…well. He has backed me into a corner, somewhat, now that I am the villain of the piece." Emma looked down at the ground and spoke quickly, as though hesitating would mean the words would tangle around her tongue. "I fear that I am often lost as to the correct course of action as far as Henry is concerned, and my even greater fear is that I have failed him on this occasion."

"You were apart for a long time." There was no accusation in the tone Mr Jones used, but the words cut Emma all the same.

"Yes. And I cannot change the past now."

"But…you went back for him. He will remember that."

"I wish I could be as certain as you are, Mr Jones."

There was silence for a moment, apart from the far-off call of some animal, and then Mr Jones spoke again. "You did not need to have Henry blame yourself. You could have, quite rightly, said that I just left without word."

Emma could not deny that he was speaking the truth, but she was sorely lacking in an explanation for her choice. Instead she remained silent on the subject, fearful that she may give away too much.

Mr Jones did not press her for an answer, however. "I did mean it, Mrs Swan. When I said I wouldn't let anything happen to Henry."

"People say a great many things, Mr Jones. Not all of them come to fruition, despite whatever good intentions lay behind them."

Emma half-suspected that Mr Jones would take the vehemence with which she had last spoken as some kind of dismissal, and she found she couldn't blame him in the least. But he remained where he was and merely attempted to continue the conversation, changing the subject away from Henry. "The rabbit was…dinner was very good. Thank-you."

"You're welcome." Emma found she was faltering a little under the sincerity of Mr Jones' gaze and it irked her. It was all very well to make promises and lay praise at her feet but she had yet to see any evidence that he meant what he said.

_Careless_, rang through her mind again and again. He would be careless with her as everyone had been, and toss her and Henry aside when the novelty of rabbit stew for dinner and a boy who thought he could show him the world had subsided.

Mr Jones seemed uncomfortable as well now, and he shuffled his feet and scratched at the back of his neck. "Liam…he struggled with that stove too. He didn't manage to make it submit quite so well, though."

Emma's face flushed a little, but she was determined not to be swayed by the praise. No doubt it was another tactic on Mr Jones' part to win her over. First charm, now this. "Goodnight, Mr Jones." She stepped past him, towards the cabin.

"Mrs Swan?" he called out and she turned around.

"Yes?"

"I…she's not my friend. The woman. I can't say as anyone in this town would call themselves that. I had Liam…and, well." Mr Jones stopped talking, apparently waiting from some response from Emma.

But she didn't have one. While she might have doubted the sincerity of some of his earlier comments regarding herself, personal insights such as this were just as foreign to her. All her instincts told her that she needed to keep Mr Jones at arm's length and then the hurt, when it came, would not be so great.

She'd been fooled once, and she liked to think she was smart enough to avoid such an unhappy outcome again.

"Goodnight, Mr Jones," she said again, and then she walked back to the cabin without turning to look at him again, pretending very hard that she did not hear the unmistakeable clink of a bottle against metal coming from the hut where he resided.

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N Apologies for the delay with this chapter, life has been a little hectic. The next chapter will have a small delay as well, due to a family holiday in Fiji (that probably sounds more exotic if you don't come from NZ, as I do). So thanks for sticking around, you're all the best **

**Disclaimer: None of the recognisable characters belong to me.**

Killian had not intended to start drinking the moment the door of the hut had shut, blocking Mrs Swan from his gaze. But the bottle was there, and it was full, and no matter how pleasing it had been to speak to Mrs Swan without her merely telling him, once again, that she thought he was a terrible excuse for a man, he was still left with the black thoughts swirling around in his head.

And the best way to chase them away was with the drink.

It wasn't something he was proud of, but it was merely one entry on a very long list of things he wasn't proud of himself for and sometimes that list got too long to dwell on.

But drinking, well, that put paid to any self-loathing thoughts that Killian might be tempted to dredge up. And if he drank enough, then even just any kind of thinking became difficult.

Unfortunately, it didn't make for a good start to the next morning and Killian felt groggy and out-of-sorts when he heard Henry's voice calling him from just outside the door. "Mr Jones? Are you in there?"

"Aye, but just…" Henry didn't appear to have the patience to listen to the rest of Killian's request to wait for a moment and he pushed the door of the hut open, letting in a burst of watery, but still unwelcome, sunlight.

"Mama said if the cows need milking, then I should do it before breakfast, and she's making breakfast now," he announced, as way of explanation for his rather abrupt entry.

"Oh. Aye." Killian had no idea what the time was, but he was certain he should have been up for an hour or more by now. Liam would never have let him sleep for so long, although his methods of waking Killian up were decidedly more unpleasant than Henry's.

Still, he almost wished for a bucket of cold water about now as his head was foggy and there was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He had to settle for splashing some of the water from the basin in the corner over his face, although the chest it was situation on seemed a lot further away from the bed than it had done the night before as Killian shuffled towards it.

The water helped, but only slightly and Killian mostly wished that he didn't have an audience as he tried to piece himself back together. The problem, or benefit, depending on how you viewed the situation, of drinking himself to sleep was that he was still dressed this morning, and his brace and hook were in place, although long since past the point of being comfortable.

Still, Killian was glad he could be considered somewhat ready to start the day, especially as Henry was starting to look around the little hut with considerable curiosity. There wasn't much to see, save the bed and a few items that were strewn around the place. "Just…be a little careful with that, lad." Of all the things that could have taken Henry's attention it had to be _that_.

"I will be," Henry assured him, as he placed the watch back on the bed. "Is it yours?"

"No," Killian answered, without thinking, as he straightened his braces. And then he realised what he'd said. "I mean, yes. Well. Now it is, anyway."

Henry nodded in a way that suggested he understood. "Mama has a watch that belonged to my father. She says I'll have it one day. It's packed in her trunk, I think."

"That's…" Killian stopped and looked over at the watch that had been Liam's. Nice didn't seem the right word to use in the situation as he knew full well that inheriting a watch didn't make up for the actual person.

But Henry clearly wasn't looking for Killian to make much conversation, or, at least, he had other topics he wanted to pursue. "Mr Jones? Did you like having a brother?"

"I…suppose. I didn't really know anything else. I mean, he was older than I was." It seemed to Killian only a slightly less odd question than the one concerning the chickens and their eggs the day before, because, once again, Henry's musings had wandered into matters that Killian had never particularly been inclined to contemplate.

Liam had always been there. Until the day he wasn't.

"He was a good brother though." He hoped that Henry wasn't going to ask for details of how, exactly, Liam had been a good brother. There were things that he just didn't feel up to discussing right at the present.

It was all very well drinking to push away the thoughts that hounded him in the night, but in the morning his emotions felt raw, as though he had scrubbed too hard and left an open wound on his heart.

Henry looked a little thoughtful for a moment and Killian took the opportunity to pull on his boots and begin the rather complicated process of tying the laces, thankful that his unexpected guest didn't seem to notice the difficulties he was having.

"I suppose…" Henry mused, slowly. "That I'll be a big brother when I get a brother. Or a sister."

Killian concentrated much harder on his task, perhaps, than even someone with only one hand and a hook should do. He didn't have the faintest idea how to respond to Henry's comment because it was so unlikely it would ever happen and the fact that the boy couldn't tell that it wasn't going to happen was a gap in Henry's education that Killian really didn't want to contemplate filling.

Where was Mrs Swan asserting her rights as his mother now?

Henry, unfortunately, seemed intent on pursuing this particular conversation. "Won't I?" he prompted.

"I…suppose…" Killian hoped that a vague agreement would suffice. But clearly Henry was not to be underestimated when he wanted something. It was, perhaps, a lesson Killian should have learned the previous night.

"You don't sound sure," Henry stated, with no small amount of accusation in his voice.

"I…" Truth be told he wasn't sure, at all, what it was that Henry really wanted from him. He couldn't give him any assurances that what he wished for was actually going to happen. Ever.

And he certainly wasn't about to explain to Henry why he was never going to get the sibling he seemed to so desperately crave. It wasn't something Killian could remember ever not knowing, courtesy of a too-small shack and many moments of his childhood that he had no wish to recall.

But whatever had been going on in the boarding house where Henry had resided, in between the careless maids and the lost eyes, it quite plainly hadn't educated the boy in the simple facts of life.

"You don't think I'd be any good? At being a brother?" Henry asked, his voice rising as he made no attempt to hide his now rather fervent desire for Killian's blessing.

"I think you'll be splendid." Killian hoped that he sounded more than definite this time, and that it would be the end of the conversation. Henry, however, didn't seem appeased. When Killian glanced over at him there was a deep crease in his forehead making him look like strikingly like his mother.

Not particularly wishing to be scrutinised any longer, Killian stood up again. "Let's just go and see to those cows, shall we?"

Henry nodded, and Killian hoped the matter would be left at that. If nothing else, he reasoned, Henry was bound to get a rather rapid education when it came time to borrow a bull to put in with the cows.

The task of milking seemed to move Henry's thoughts on to other matters and Killian hoped that the matter of siblings would not be brought up again. He did not much enjoy the idea of Henry holding him to account for breaking a promise he had never made in the first instance. Not after witnessing Mrs Swan finding herself in almost exactly the same position the previous evening.

She was, perhaps, not the only person who wasn't entirely certain how to manage Henry.

When the milking was completed, Henry took the pail inside to Mrs Swan and Killian lingered for a little longer than was necessary in order to finish up the tasks he still had to do. It wasn't that he was reluctant to face Mrs Swan in the cold light of the morning, but there was no denying that as much as he desired to spend more time in her company, he always felt a little lacking when he did so.

And maybe he was just a little bit reluctant to face himself in the cold, green gaze of Mrs Swan.

By the time Killian entered the cabin Henry was already eating and Mrs Swan was busy and had her back to him. There was food already placed on the table and he sat down in front of it.

Once again, Mrs Swan had given him a boiled egg but, when he peered at it a little closer he noticed one difference. This morning it was already peeled.

Killian looked sideways at Henry but he had already begun on his breakfast and it was impossible to tell if he'd been given the same treatment. It seemed a little ridiculous he realised, to spend too long pondering the meaning of whether an egg had been peeled or not, but he had hoped, after the brief words they'd exchanged the night before, that Mrs Swan was starting to see him as a friend and definitely not as someone else she had to mother. Or, worse, a cripple.

But last night now seemed a little far-away to him, the effect of the drink he consumed, no doubt. Maybe he had been wrong about her. Maybe he had been wrong about everything.

Maybe he should just eat the bloody egg.

He was clearly too far lost in his own thoughts to notice Mrs Swan moving across the cabin and the cup suddenly appeared on the table in front of him, as if spirited there by unseen forces.

"I made coffee. You can try it... if you would like." He lifted his eyes to take in Mrs Swan's expression. If she had, indeed, softened a little towards him this morning it was almost impossible to tell by the way she was currently frowning.

Although after a moment it became clear that she was frowning at the cup, more than at himself. He hesitated, and then reached for it, which made her face relax, just a fraction. "It's not like I'm used to," she ventured, slowly.

"I'd assume nothing out here is," Killian replied.

"No." Mrs Swan sighed, heavily. "But I had thought that if I was promised coffee I would at least get something approaching it."

Her rather downcast demeanour made it obvious that the coffee was not the only thing Mrs Swan found lacking. She sank down into the chair opposite him and turned her gaze to the wall. Killian fought the urge to reach over and place his hand over hers, which were clasped on the table in front of her. It would have been too great a reminder of the sham of a marriage ceremony and the way her eyes had widened when she realised he no longer had two hands to hold hers with.

It would have served no purpose but to confirm her view that what she had received was hardly what she had been promised.

"Perhaps it will seem better in time," he ventured.

"Perhaps," Mrs Swan agreed, before standing up and leaving him to eat his breakfast alongside Henry. He tried to convince himself that her agreeing with him was a sign of her goodwill and confirmed the fact that she was beginning to view him in a more favourable light.

He failed miserably.

He left the cabin without attempting much in the way of conversation, save a brief thank-you for the meal provided and a comment that the coffee was perfectly acceptable. He walked out feeling less than content, both with himself and with the brief nod of the head that had been Mrs Swan's reply.

It would be easier, he thought, if he could be satisfied with stilted conversations regarding the quality of the coffee, but it was becoming plainly obvious that it was never going to be enough. As much as he might desire her, might hope for an invitation to her bed, might wish that he could provide far more assurance to Henry that his desires for a sibling had some chance of being fulfilled; what he really wanted above all else was her companionship. He had enjoyed the brief moments he'd spent in her company when she had confided in him the night before, he wished that she would seek him out and just…want to spend a few brief moments with him. If only for the simple reason that he would enjoy speaking with her; even at her most stern and intractable Killian found her an infinitely appealing presence.

He was lonely, and he had been for a long time. Killian hadn't realised just how far he had gone in shutting Liam out and keeping himself away from the world until, well. Until Liam had sent for Mrs Swan for the exact same reason Killian desired her now.

None of those thoughts made Killian feel particularly kind towards himself, and none of them helped him resolve the problem of how to get what he wanted from Mrs Swan. She'd locked herself away just as carefully as she'd clearly packed everything into that mysterious trunk of hers – he hadn't failed to miss the sudden appearance of silverware at the table the day before and it had made him curious about what other items she might have brought with her. And where she'd obtained them.

But it looked as though none of that information was going to be freely given by Mrs Swan and the thought irked him. Her talk of trusting him was only talk because her words had yet to be matched by her actions.

The next time he saw Mrs Swan she was walking across the yard directly towards him, clearly on a mission to speak to him. He could tell, he realised, by the way she carried herself, shoulders back and head up, although her gaze was to the side and on anything but himself. Killian had no doubt she had to steel herself to even seek him out and, while he may have hoped that the few minutes she had spent watching him the day before had been a sign that she was warming to him, he had to admit that her explanation of caution regarding Henry's well-being may have been closer to the mark.

Still, Henry was not around and now she was here, with him, and it might not be progress but it was something at any rate.

"Mr Jones? I was wondering if you might have any rope I could use?" Of all the things she could have chosen to speak to him about, this was not one he had expected and he was momentarily flummoxed.

"Rope?"

"Yes." Her gaze was steadier now, but her lips were still pressed together, the corners of her mouth turned down slightly. "That won't be a problem, will it?"

"No. I just…I didn't think you'd have much call for rope." He gestured towards the cabin uselessly, trying, and failing, to give some pretext for his confusion.

Mrs Swan looked on the verge of smiling at that. Ordinarily that might have pleased him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to find himself the object of her amusement. He may have been desirous of her company, but he was not prepared to throw away his pride. Not just yet, anyway.

"I confess, Mr Jones, I very rarely find the need to use rope when I am cooking, but perhaps if you would like it added to your meals in future I could accommodate you."

And there it was again, the little moment when Mrs Swan became the woman who intrigued him so, the one who had no qualm about speaking her mind. Only he wished that, in this instance, her mind wasn't quite so attuned to his rather embarrassing reaction.

"It seems a little puzzling, is all." Once again, Killian felt like he was on the back foot as much as he had been when Mrs Swan had first spied him trying to leave the station. He began to wish he had never questioned her request, just found some bloody rope and handed it to her when she'd asked.

"Yes, but you seem unduly suspicious of my need for it," Mrs Swan replied, sounding less amused now and more like she was trying to understand his reaction.

"Merely surprised." He hoped that was enough to assure her that he had no hidden agenda. "I hadn't anticipated your need to…secure anything with rope."

"Well. You can be rest assured, Mr Jones, that if I had thought I would have a need to secure…_anything_, with rope, then I would have brought some with me. But, alas, I did not and will have to rely on your generosity. And I will be using it for hanging out laundry, so my purpose is much less nefarious than you seem to be imagining."

Killian was torn between enjoying the novelty of Mrs Swan interacting with him, and a need to take back some control over the direction of the conversation taking place. While he was deeply interested in finding out more about her he was in no hurry to be branded a fool and a simpleton in her mind simply because she had asked him for rope out of the blue.

"Am I to assume, then, that anything for which you did have a nefarious purpose would be secreted in that trunk you brought with you?"

She fixed him with an enigmatic smile. "I've merely packed what I thought would be useful. I'm sure most women who move out here do the same."

"No rope, though."

"No. No rope."

Mrs Swan looked at Killian expectantly, no doubt assuming that confirming that she did not have any rope would be enough to prompt him into action, but he stayed where he was, not quite ready to forgo the conversation just yet.

Mrs Swan sighed, and her eyes flashed with annoyance at his inaction while the way her lips pinched together made it clear how hard she was working to refrain from actually telling him how annoyed she was.

Killian wondered how long it would take her to reach the point where she felt the need to share her frustration with him, and whether he would be brave enough to push her to it.

He turned slowly towards the barn. "Shall I look forward to seeing what useful items you can produce, Mrs Swan?"

"I'll leave that up to you, Mr Jones."

He took two steps towards the barn and stopped again, before turning back to face Mrs Swan who had been following him, no doubt in the hope of finally being rewarded with the rope she had requested. She clearly hadn't anticipated his sudden change in direction, and he half expected that she might step back and away from him.

But Mrs Swan held her ground and merely waited, which simply made him want to continue with his delaying tactics all the more. She had existed in a bubble of self-sufficiency since she had arrived on the farm and the fact that she was now asking him for something, even something as simple as a length of rope, was simply too good an opportunity to pass up by fulfilling her request quickly.

He would take her annoyance because it was worth it for the chance to spend a little more time in her company.

"I have to say, though," he continued. "I wouldn't have categorised silverware as a necessarily _useful_ item, although it was, no doubt, a very welcome addition to the table you set yesterday."

He realised he had made a mistake the moment the brief flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. In his desire to prolong their encounter, Killian had thought nothing of mentioning the silver tray that Mrs Swan had brought out the day before. It was an expensive item, but he hadn't realised there was more to the story. Not until he'd seen it written all over her face.

Still, her composure was quickly recovered which told another story altogether. He watched as she glanced to the side before answering. "It's an item which holds…sentimental value."

"A gift then?"

"Yes." Mrs Swan nodded in agreement, although her voice wavered slightly. She cleared her throat. "A gift," she repeated, appearing quite troubled now by the turn the conversation had taken, and Killian regretted the fact he had pushed it this far. He wished, now, that he had fetched the bloody rope she'd wanted and not brought up the silver tray, because, honestly, what was one small tray?

Except that the mention of it had clearly provoked something in Mrs Swan, some memory that she wanted hidden, something other than the pleasant, jovial conversation Killian had anticipated.

"From someone who holds you in high regard no doubt? Perhaps…your Aunt Regina?" Killian had hoped he was handing Mrs Swan a way to back out of the conversation gracefully, but she frowned in confusion. "Well, she did leave you the tablecloth, did she not?"

The frown did not leave Mrs Swan's face, but she answered with a quiet "Yes," and he was content to leave it at that and was about to continue on his mission to find rope when she added, "But she was never my aunt, of course."

"But she is Henry's?"

"No, although she was very good to him. I…I wouldn't have left him there otherwise." Mrs Swan was possibly mistaking his curiosity for a condemnation of her past actions. While those remained a little unclear to him, whatever had happened in the past, it was unlikely he would find it in himself to condemn her. After all, as he'd said the night before, she had gone back for Henry.

There were many who would not have done.

"So she was your friend?" he asked, still hoping to clarify the relationship, if only for his own benefit.

Mrs Swan tilted her head to one side, briefly. "Employer. I was one of her maids."

"Ah. And were you often pressed into service in the hunt for the missing eye?"

"No. That guest was more recent than my employment which was…over ten years ago now, I believe."

Mrs Swan seemed to have retreated into her own thoughts and, while Killian was pleased to have at least one new piece of information about her past, mostly he was glad that she had recovered her composure. He realised that the prudent course of action would be to let things lie and, perhaps, attempt to gain her confidence again at a later date.

But he was not sure when she would seek him out again and, more to the point, he was not someone who was usually happy taking the prudent course of action.

So, instead, he pressed on with the conversation. "Before you were married?"

He had expected that to be one of the more straightforward questions he could have asked Mrs Swan, but she rose from her reverie in a seeming state of confusion. "No. Yes…I mean…" She took a deep breath before continuing. "My husband was gone."

The word 'gone' struck at Killian's heart and reminded him, all too harshly, of exactly who was gone from his own life. He was torn between staying and offering some useless words of sympathy that were no doubt wasted at this late date, or fleeing to lick his own wounds on the pretext of finding the rope.

But then he realised just how long ago Mrs Swan had been a maid. And while Mrs Swan might believe him a simpleton, his education, after all, had included a great many matters that Henry's had not. More to the point, he knew exactly what had been required to ensure the boy's existence.

Whether he should share this knowledge with Mrs Swan was another matter altogether, and, although Killian suspected quite strongly that he would regret the words as soon as they were spoken, he couldn't help but ask anyway. "You were employed by this Regina when you were with child?"

Mrs Swan's frown returned, and she sighed in a resigned way, as though she knew her ruse had been discovered. "Yes, but Regina wasn't exactly aware of that. Not until…" she shrugged, slightly. "Well, I had Henry in her kitchen. I think that was a surprise to everyone concerned." Mrs Swan's chin lifted as she adopted a decidedly defiant air, as though challenging him to, well, he wasn't sure. Term her an inadequate mother, or servant, or both, perhaps?

Whatever she may have been, she was certainly surprising.

"I see. And after you had surprised your employer in this way, she became somewhat of a benefactor to you? And to Henry?"

"Somewhat."

Mrs Swan held his gaze, but offered no further comment or explanation and Killian felt that the moment for revelations was passed now. Wary of pushing her too far so she, once again, retreated inside the safety of the cabin he decided to begin on his errand once again.

And if he took a lot longer to fetch the rope than he should have simply because he was enjoying the novelty of Mrs Swan's presence in the barn after she followed him inside, then at least she had the good grace not to mention that he couldn't possibly get anything done in a day if every task was completed quite so slowly.

Indeed, by the time he handed her a length of rope she seemed to have recovered her previous good humour. "I confess to being surprised to find myself actually in possession of rope. I was afraid that you thought I might…I don't know. Use it to drag one of your cows into town in order to sell it and pocket the proceeds."

Killian couldn't help but laugh at the image that conjured. "Well, I'd like to see you actually try. The white cow's stubborn enough to give you run for your money. Although…" He made a great show of sizing her up, during which time Mrs Swan huffed and shifted her weight to one foot, but remained in front of him, waiting for his final words.

He thought that wasn't a bad sign at all.

"I do believe you might actually succeed," he said, in the end. "If only to prove me wrong."

"And you believe me to be the type of woman who would do something foolish just to prove my bravery?"

The answer was out of his mouth before he even thought about it. "Yes."

After all, the fact that she was there at all, that she had married him out of whatever misplaced sense of duty she might have felt towards Liam, spoke volumes as far as Killian was concerned. For all he knew, Mrs Swan had simply agreed to marry him because she'd spied him trying to sneak away and thought it would teach him a lesson. He almost wouldn't put it past her.

"You seem awfully certain in your opinions of me, Mr Jones," she replied, looking at him curiously, as though he had confused more than irritated her with his statement. Still, there was a fine line between the two, he suspected, and a push in the wrong direction could easily send Mrs Swan retreating from him once again.

"I find you quite…intriguing," he confessed.

"I fear there is nothing intriguing about me, Mr Jones." Her reply had come quickly, the words spoken harshly.

"I think, perhaps, I should be the judge of that, Mrs Swan."

There was a pause, while Mrs Swan considered her next words. "I am not much for being judged, Mr Jones. After all, none of us have the luxury of living blameless lives, do we?" The warning in her voice was unmistakeable, but, nonetheless, it merely increased Killian's desire to find out more about the surprising Mrs Swan, and he answered her with nothing more than a smile.

She didn't see, or, perhaps, didn't care, just how much she had already given away. It was plain to Killian that the fact that she worked so hard to keep herself hidden behind a mask of blank respectability, that she put up those invisible walls designed to repel any inquiry, clearly indicated that there was a reason for her masquerade that he had yet to discover.

What could she possibly want to hide?

Mrs Swan looked away quickly and lifted the rope that was now in her hands. "I should…I am going to hang this, and then set out for school with Henry." With that she abruptly turned on the spot and disappeared around the corner of barn, leaving Killian standing there, fighting the very real urge to follow her.

Instead he stood rooted on the spot, reluctant to begin on some of the other work that required his attention, if only because Mrs Swan might yet return and ask for his assistance in some other matter. It was unlikely to occur, of course, her rapid retreat had made it plain that she considered their conversation over and he very much doubted she would be anxious to welcome any more of his questions.

But still, there was always the chance. After all, she was nothing if not surprising.

**Thanks for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N Hello again! I am back, after taking a little longer than I'd hoped to write this. Never fear, though, I haven't given up. **

**Disclaimer: I make no claim to the recognisable characters in this story.**

Emma was more than a little annoyed after her encounter with Mr Jones, but the most infuriating thing about it was that, once again, she'd come away far more annoyed with herself than with the man she'd been speaking to.

And really, that seemed utterly wrong to her because if she was going to be peeved with someone, she'd rather it was Mr Jones. It made things so much clearer if she could fit him into a neat little box that was marked 'impossible to deal with', and then she wouldn't have to. She could live her life and he could live his and they wouldn't have to cross paths.

Except that she was his wife, and stuck here with him, and there was always the chance that she didn't have quite enough rope for her purpose.

Emma allowed herself a long and rather indulgent sigh, before continuing with the business at hand. It had seemed a simple task when she'd first imagined it, all that was required was to string some rope up and then she would have a place to hang the laundry she intended to do later in the morning.

But, while it is straightforward enough to tie one end of the rope to a stray beam that poked out between the roof and the wall of the barn, there is nothing that Emma can see which is suitable to attach the other end of the rope to.

She was examining the outhouse carefully, looking for any suitable stray nail or hole in a plank, when she realised that Mr Jones had walked up behind her. She resisted the urge to turn around and settled with poking her finger into a hole in the wood of the outhouse to see if it would be possible to push the rope through it…but was there another hole that she could pass it back through?

Emma remained steadfastly absorbed in the rough wood planks in front of her and refused to turn around and acknowledge his presence. It was the best course of action she could think of without there being an actual box around to shut him in.

Still, there was only so long she could spend examining one hole in one plank of wood and, after a few moments, it became obvious that she was avoiding Mr Jones' attention. With another deep sigh, she turned her head slightly and regarded him over her shoulder. "I should think there is a limit to how intriguing I could possibly be, Mr Jones."

"Well…" Emma heard the sound of his boots shuffling a little further forward. "I was concerned for the welfare of the cows. I didn't realise I should in fact be worried about whether you'd leave any buildings still standing around here."

For a brief moment Emma considered holding her tongue and just not responding to the comment that was blatant in its attempt to provoke her. But, almost as though she was no longer the person in charge of her own voice, she suddenly found herself replying to him anyway. "I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from me, Mr Jones. I'm merely looking for somewhere to attach this rope to." She held up the end of the rope to demonstrate her dilemma.

"Ah. That would explain the muttering I heard."

Emma felt rather justified in believing his statement to be entirely false. Clearly he had concocted the story to…well, she wasn't sure that she wanted to admit to the possibility that he was looking for reasons to seek her out. Even to only admit it to herself. Instead she settled for making a scoffing noise that, she hoped, set out her feelings on the matter.

Mr Jones didn't seem at all put off by that, if anything her scorn seemed to encourage him, and he stepped a little closer to Emma, peering closely at the wall of the outhouse.

"Any suggestions?" she asked, a little more snippily that perhaps was required.

He seemed far more interested in the part of the outhouse wall that Emma had been examining closely, and he leaned even closer, his chin almost brushing Emma's shoulder as he did so. Despite the imminent problem of exactly where to attach the rope to, she didn't feel the solution required quite such a thorough examination of the spot on the wall right next to her own head.

"Actually, yes" Mr Jones said, stepping back a little. Emma waited for him to elaborate but he said nothing further, merely turning and walking back around the corner of the barn. Emma was in two minds about whether to follow him, she certainly didn't want to give him the impression that she couldn't bear to be without his presence for more than a few moments, but, at the same time, she was curious about what this idea might turn out to be.

Her curiosity was soon sated when Mr Jones returned carrying a hammer in his good hand. As he approached Emma held out her own hand to take it from him, but he didn't hand it over, instead he stopped and gestured to his face with the hammer.

Oh. Mr Jones had a nail pressed between his lips and no doubt expected her to remove it for him. He could, Emma thought, have simply given her the hammer and that would have solved the problem, but when she moved to take it from him, he lowered his arm and the hammer was suddenly out of reach.

The challenge was unmistakeable, even without the raised eyebrow Mr Jones was now sporting. He had said before he thought her bold enough to steal a cow, now he wanted her to prove her mettle by…touching him.

It was hardly the worst task Emma had even been set, but, even so, she felt she should take the time to consider her next move. Something about this whole scenario suggested that she was about to cross a line she couldn't retreat behind again.

Or, perhaps, she was just being silly. A symptom of her unease in this strange situation and the stranger she found herself with. Clearly, she was far better off to just take the nail from him and move on to other things.

Emma reached up and grasped the nail with her forefinger and thumb, trying to remain as dispassionate as possible. Her little finger brushed Mr Jones' lips, and the whiskers below them as he opened his mouth to release the nail. As she pulled it free, his mouth curved up into a smile which matched the small crinkles in the corner of his eyes.

She was suddenly, and painfully, aware of the way that her heart was beating in her chest, but pushed the knowledge to one side. She'd deal with that later, right now she had a washing line to hang. "And the hammer?" she prompted.

Mr Jones continued to smile, but the hammer remained in his grasp. "You just put the nail where you want and I'll hammer it in."

"Really? Henry is allowed the hammer and I am not?"

Mr Jones shrugged. "Let's just take it one step at a time, perhaps."

Emma recalled their earlier conversation when she had requested rope and assumed he intended to continue playing the same game until he relented once again. "You fear that allowing me to have both rope and a hammer would be too much temptation for me to resist?"

Mr Jones leaned down so his mouth was close to her ear. "Mrs Swan. I am not entirely certain what it is you feel you would be tempted to do, but I think I will definitely retain possession of the hammer for now."

"No, that's not…" Emma stopped and took in the fact Mr Jones was still smiling at her. It was all a game to him, only he kept changing the rules. Well, she wouldn't bother trying to learn them. If he wanted games he could play them by himself, on his own time. Emma had other things to attend to.

"Fine. Is here suitable, do you think?" She held a nail against the side of the outhouse wall.

"As good as anywhere else."

Emma focused her gaze on the nail she was holding and waited for Mr Jones to strike the first blow. She had expected him to stand beside her, but instead he moved until he was standing right behind her, almost close enough to touch her back and, indeed, as he reached around to, presumably, begin hammering the nail in, his arm did brush her shoulder.

But perhaps, Emma reasoned, this was simply another game Mr Jones was playing and she was almost certain that if she turned her head to look at him it she would lose whatever it was they were playing. And so, she remained facing the wall trying to ignore just how close Mr Jones was to her now, ignore the fact that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and while she thought that should repulse her, somehow, it didn't.

Mr Jones tapped the nail in, far slower than she'd expected, and Emma became more and more fixated on what exactly might happen if she looked at his face. Maybe it wouldn't be the admission of failure she felt it was.

She could feel his breath on her ear and it occurred to Emma that if she did, in fact, turn her head then their lips would be almost touching and she was struck with a sudden curiosity to find out what that would be like. Feeling a little off-balance all of a sudden, Emma shifted her weight to the other foot which meant her hip brushed against Mr Jones' leg.

It shouldn't be this complicated, she thought, to hammer in a single nail. Emma took a deep breath and tried to remember that touching Mr Jones, that letting him touch her, was a game she had no intention of starting any time soon.

But it was soon clear, anyway, that the nail was now secure enough that Emma could remove her hand, and there was someone else who required her attention. "Mama!" Henry called out. "I found it!"

For a moment Emma was unclear as to what Henry was referring to, and she struggled a little to remember her last conversation with him, one that would have occurred prior to being in Mr Jones' company in the yard.

She refused, point-blank, to even contemplate why she was suddenly so forgetful, and then she recalled what Henry is no doubt referring to. "Your schoolbook. I did say it was packed in your case."

"Yes, Mama," Henry replied, sounding a little sheepish. His gaze, however, wasn't on Emma but on Mr Jones who was still behind her. "I could have helped," he ventured.

"It's alright, lad. Your mother here has been quite the asset."

Emma felt more than a little uncomfortable being the object of discussion between Henry and Mr Jones even if, it seemed, Mr Jones was currently singing her praises. It was, she felt, time to leave. "I guess we can be off then. Mr Jones, I'm going to walk Henry to school now. I will…I'll return shortly."

She risked a small glance behind her, but couldn't read anything in Mr Jones' expression and was unsure what she expected to see, anyway. She hurried towards the cabin before she could be drawn into another uncomfortable situation by Mr Jones, untying her apron hurriedly and hoping that the result would not be a knot in the string she would have difficulty in untangling.

Emma felt she had enough knotty problems in her life already.

And she hoped that Henry's company on the walk to the small schoolhouse on the edge of the town would pull her mind away from Mr Jones and his challenges and his games and his utterly confusing desire to remain near her as much as possible.

Discussing the prospect of the new school was far more appealing right then. "I wish the tree had grown already," Henry said, with a small sigh. "It would have been nice to bring Miss Blanchard an apple."

"I suspect she won't be offended by your lack of a gift, Henry. And besides, you've bought your schoolbook from Boston. I think that will be a greater help than an apple."

"I know." Henry sighed, again. "It's just that…" He stopped speaking and merely continued swinging the book he held in his hand.

"You hope she will like you?" Emma prompted.

"I…suppose," Henry agreed reluctantly. It occurred to Emma, perhaps a little belatedly she feared, that for all Henry appeared to be embracing life on the farm, he was a still a small boy, a long way from the only home he'd ever known and he was bound to find it all a little daunting.

"Well, just remember that Miss Blanchard is in the same boat, and counting on you to support her."

"You really think she'll need my help, Mama?"

"I'm sure she will."

Henry seemed, thankfully, satisfied with that answer and Emma was glad that he didn't press her for further assurances that everything would work out. In truth, she couldn't give them to him; Emma had enough memories of new places to know that nothing was ever guaranteed in these matters.

But Miss Blanchard was certainly welcoming when they reached the school house. "Thank goodness you're here, Henry!" she said brightly, while Henry stood close to Emma, looking a little bashful. "I need all the help I can get."

Miss Blanchard turned her smile to Emma, who returned it with, perhaps, a little less enthusiasm. She was still troubled by the awkward gathering in the town the day before, the one which resulted in the sight of Mr Jones being accosted by a saloon girl. Most of all, she feared that Miss Blanchard pitied her.

Still, if it meant she favoured Henry perhaps it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to Emma.

Just then another little girl ran into the classroom and handed a rather wilted yellow flower to Miss Blanchard. "Oh, thank you, Grace. This is lovely." The little girl didn't say anything to that, but Henry stared reproachfully at Emma. He was no doubt right, and they should have brought an offering to welcome his new teacher.

Emma decided it was time to take her leave before Henry had a chance to voice his displeasure at their choice and she waved a small goodbye first to Henry, and then to his teacher.

Outside the schoolroom once again Emma found herself truly alone for the first time in what felt like a very long time. Certainly since she'd begun her journey to Storybrooke she had been either in charge of Henry or in the presence of Mr Jones or both.

Now she only had her own company, and she found the experience quite refreshing. Eager to make the most of the opportunity Emma decided that instead of heading back the way she'd walked with Henry, she would continue on and visit the town once again.

It appeared much the same as it had previously, there was a moderate level of activity and the people paid her scant attention, a fact Emma was grateful for. She took the time to catalogue the buildings she could see; the general store and a small boarding house attached to it, a pawnbroker's with the name of Gold written above the awning, a timber merchant's, a livery. Further back she could see what looked like a mill.

And then there was the saloon, the building looming over one side of the makeshift square. There was no sign of the girl in green today, and Emma wasn't entirely prepared to admit that she had been curious about her, if, for no other fact that she seemed well-acquainted with Mr Jones.

His behaviour that morning had been a mystery to Emma, or, rather, the intentions behind it had been. She'd been offended when he'd quite obviously shunned her company after she and Henry first arrived but now, now that he was not only seeking her out but attempting to engage her in a kind of playful banter, that just confused Emma utterly.

There was no way, she decided, to find the words to ask the man she'd married if what he desired from her was friendship, or something approaching a courtship. Or, perhaps, something else altogether.

Emma felt less than confident that any of her musings would lead in the right direction. And, as she continued to drift past the saloon, she was so consumed with her own thoughts that she failed to notice the woman standing in front of her until they were almost toe to toe.

She was older than Emma, perhaps by twenty years or more, but she was still undeniably handsome, her dark hair coiled in an intricate style and her cheeks showing just the merest hint of rouge. She tilted her parasol to one side and gave Emma an appraising look.

"I'm sorry," Emma said, hoping she hadn't caused any great offence.

"Oh, it's no problem, dear," the woman replied, a smile playing across her painted lips. "I make allowances for those who are new in town."

"Oh. Well, yes I am." Emma didn't feel particularly inclined to divulge any more information than was absolutely necessary; there was something about the woman's openly appraising gaze that Emma found a little unsettling.

"I'm Cora Mills," the woman continued, extending her hand to Emma, who took it, briefly. "Proprietor of this establishment," she gestured to the saloon. "Plus a few other…interests…in town."

"Pleased to meet you," Emma replied. "I'm…" She was unable to finish as Mrs Mills waved a hand and began speaking again.

"I know exactly who _you_ are, dear. You're the most exciting thing to happen here for a very long time."

"I find that very hard to believe," Emma murmured, wishing she had a polite way to escape the increasingly uncomfortable conversation she found herself in.

Mrs Mills gave a rather rueful chuckle, and shook her head, making her jet earrings dance in the sunlight. "I suppose a small town isn't what you're used to, but, believe me, new arrivals are quite the draw-card for the people around here, Mrs Jones."

The woman's smile grew wider, which simply made Emma more suspicious. "And what exactly are they saying about me, Mrs Mills?"

"Oh, well. Of course the tragedy that occurred just before you arrived was terrible, but we're all _so glad_ that you've found your feet. And your man, as it were." Mrs Mills tilted her head to one side and locked eyes with Emma.

"I have been very fortunate." Emma was well aware that there was no matching smile on her face, but, at that moment, she found it very hard to care. Whatever this woman wanted with her she doubted it was good things.

"Of course you have. But…well, you and I we are women of the world, are we not?" Emma nodded once, slowly, a little unsure of what exactly she was agreeing to. "And we have seen what can befall a woman in this rather pitiless world."

"Yes." Emma's voice was little more than a whisper, Cora Mills' words cutting far too close to the bone for comfort.

"Well, we women, we need to stick together. You just remember that, should your circumstances ever become…less than they are now. Here," she gestured again to the saloon door. "Here we take care of one another Mrs Jones, and you will always, _always_, find a friend when you need one."

Her words echoed those of Miss Blanchard's the day prior but this time Emma found scant comfort. Mrs Mills was, quite plainly, no friend to be trusted and Emma could think of nothing worse than finding herself with nowhere to go but the saloon.

"I thank you for your concern, Mrs Mills, but I assure you…"

Once again, Emma was cut off before she could finish. "Yes, I know. You don't believe you would ever be in need of such help. If only that were the case, my dear. But the world is cruel and fate is a fickle thing. And it would be a great pity for something awful to befall someone as comely as you are, my dear." She fixed Emma with what was, presumably, meant as a kindly smile. To Emma's mind, however, it looked downright predatory.

And then she looked away from Emma, turning her head to the side as something else caught her attention. When Emma followed her gaze she saw that it was now focused on a man standing outside the pawnbroker's store. She vaguely recognised him; he seemed to have been part of the welcoming party who met Miss Blanchard at the station on her arrival.

Mrs Mills nodded in the direction of the man, but he made no response that Emma could see, instead remaining almost still and continuing to watch them intently.

"Have you met Mr Gold?" Mrs Mills asked, conversationally, as she turned back to Emma.

"We haven't been properly introduced."

"Mmm, well. I'm sure it's only a matter of time. He owns most things in town. Well, most things I don't own, that is. I'm sure he'll be very interested in you. Although…" Mrs Mills paused and let out a rather dramatic sigh, before fixing Emma with a sly look. "I would have to venture that he and your husband are not on the best terms and I'd advise you not to get caught between them. It would not end well for you. It never does for the woman, does it?"

"I should be getting back." Emma said, stepping back and turning away from Mrs Mills.

"Yes. I suppose you should. The joy of having a husband to attend to, I presume. And I would imagine he requires a good deal of your attention. He is, well…" She paused for longer than was comfortable, maintaining that faint smile she'd worn throughout their encounter, as though she found Emma endlessly amusing company. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you anything about your own husband, now do I?"

"Good day, Mrs Mills."

"And to you, Mrs Jones. Send my regards to that husband of yours, and… I'm sure you think you don't need them, but you really do have my best wishes. I certainly hope that you remain as happy as you are now. You've come such a long way to be here. It would be a shame if things didn't work out as you had hoped with Mr Jones, wouldn't it?"

Emma was aware of her heart beating loudly in her chest but she refused to spend another moment under this woman's scrutiny. With great effort she managed to stammer out a reply. "I will take my leave now, Mrs Mills. Good day once again."

There was no response from the other woman and Emma hurried off feeling deeply disturbed by the whole encounter. It was one thing to realise that everyone knew who she was and why she was there, it was quite another to have to deal with someone who wanted to deliberately unsettle her. Or, at least, that was how she took the meaning behind Mrs Mills' words.

Worst of all was the insinuation that she knew more about Mr Jones that Emma herself did. It wouldn't be a difficult feat after all, she barely knew the man at all despite being married to him.

It wasn't that Emma was ignorant of her situation, she just, perhaps, had not expected the other woman to point it out to her quite so forcefully under the guise of friendship. It left Emma feeling unsettled and…disappointed, she supposed. In herself for beginning to feel as though things could be better for her in Storybrooke, as though she and Mr Jones might yet find some common ground.

As though she'd ever be a part of anything good.

Hurrying away from the saloon she glanced to her right and saw that Mr Gold was watching her progress. Emma had had quite enough scrutiny for one morning, however, and hurried past the buildings and away from town.

Passing the schoolhouse once again she peered through the window, curious about how Henry was adjusting to his new environment. He didn't notice her, although Miss Blanchard raised her hand in acknowledgement. Henry appeared far too interested in his book, which he was sharing with the girl, Grace, who had been in the classroom earlier.

At least, Emma ruminated as she continued her journey home, Henry appeared to be making friends. The fact he knew nothing about his desk-mate, save her first name and her taste in gifts, did not matter a jot.

The fact she knew nothing about Mr Jones mattered a great deal, and, despite the fact she desperately wanted to believe that his more friendly overtures were genuine, she simply had no evidence to support that belief. She couldn't shake the doubts she had now, the ones placed there by Mrs Mills who was, she had to admit, no friend to her and perhaps no friend to Mr Jones.

But that didn't mean that she didn't know something about him. Something Emma herself didn't.

Sadly thinking about her situation on the walk home did Emma no good at all and merely served feed the gnawing worry in her stomach that had somehow dissipated during the morning.

And she wasn't going to think about why exactly that was.

There was no sign of Mr Jones when she scanned the yard at the farm, but her washing line was now hung and waiting for her to use and she felt that was a sign she should just carry on with the work at hand.

Behind the cabin was the remains of a fire pit that had, perhaps, once been used for cooking. The tripod, from which hung a large, cast-iron pot, looked a little on the rickety side, but Emma gave it an experimental shake and it seemed sound enough.

Building the fire below it from the wood stacked beside the cabin was her first task, and filling the pot with water to heat her second. By the time those were complete her anxiety had eased somewhat. Perhaps, she thought, she just needed good, hard work to keep her occupied. That way she wouldn't have to think about, or interact with, Mr Jones. Her life would certainly be simpler if that was the case.

While the water was heating Emma dragged a small tin tub she'd spied near the outhouse into the centre of the yard and proceeded to rid it of its resident population of spiders and other insects. Next was to find some dirty laundry to actually clean. Her own soiled garments, and Henry's, had been set aside inside the cabin, so Emma gathered them up, along with all the bedding and brought them outside.

Leaving everything in a pile beside the tub, Emma took one final glance around the yard, and then set off in the direction of the hut Mr Jones slept in. Friendship, or whatever it was, he wanted from her was one thing. What she'd actually promised, both Mr Jones and his brother, was something else entirely.

She'd come there to run their household, and if today was laundry day, then everything was getting washed. At least, that was the justification in Emma's own mind as she walked across the yard to the hut where Mr Jones slept. She wasn't simply giving in to her curiosity about the man and taking the opportunity to look through his private space; she was demonstrating her worth to him.

It was a good story, and Emma repeated it in her head until she almost believed it herself.

The hut, when she entered it, was dark, the sod blocking the light quite effectively. Emma was tempted to turn on her heel and leave. She stood her ground, however, took a deep breath in and looked around, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom, wondering where she could look that would be the most likely place for soiled clothing.

Or perhaps anything else that might show something about Mr Jones. Something that would give her some clue as to whether she needed to be as cautious as Mrs Mills had intimated she should be.

It was patently clear that he had made no attempt to hide the bottles of liquor that were in the hut, but Emma wasn't unduly surprised. For one thing, he probably wasn't expecting company. Emma picked up a half-empty bottle and looked at it idly. It was possible, she thought, that Mrs Mills was simply worried about Emma's influence on someone who had been, up until now, a good customer of the saloon.

For possibly more than just alcohol, Emma thought, sighing and replacing the bottle on the small chest it had been sitting on. There was a pocket watch next to it, and a basin and jug with water, but she had to find anything that could be described as laundry, or anything particularly incriminating.

Emma walked to the bed and was about to strip the bedding when the door suddenly opened and Mr Jones stepped through it. For a moment they both remained frozen on the spot, staring at each other and then Emma watched as his expression changed from surprise to something altogether darker.

"You're in here," he said, which was hard for Emma to deny because she plainly was in the hut.

Emma, instead, decided that her best course of action was to act as though no transgression had been committed. "I was simply in search of more laundry. I did ask, but you hadn't given me anything."

The expression on Mr Jones' face did not lighten any and, if anything, his frown deepened. "I don't think the laundry is that urgent. Certainly not to the extent that you needed to come in and rifle through my belongings."

Emma made a scoffing noise. "I did nothing of the sort. I was about to remove the bedding, if you must know." She valiantly attempted to retain a relaxed posture, but there was no mistaking that Mr Jones was between her and the door and there was no escape at present. It might be easy to think him a friend in the bright sunlight of the day, but here, in the dark, it was hard for Emma to tell exactly what he was to her.

He took a step forward, further into the hut and Emma, without thinking took a step backwards and held up her hands, palms facing outward, whether in supplication or warning she wasn't sure.

Mr Jones' frown remained in place, but his eyes softened, and looked almost pleading. "Why do think I would hurt you?" he asked. "I've said that I won't."

"I just…" Emma didn't really know how to answer that question, without giving too much away. "I don't even know you," she settled for in the end, her voice quiet and sad, even to her own ears. It was the thought she'd been stuck with since her horrible conversation with Mrs Mills. She didn't know the man she'd married, and, worse than that, other people did.

"No. You don't." Mr Jones sighed and looked away, before running his hand over the back of his neck. "Well, feel free to look around, I have nothing to hide." He waved his hand in front of him in invitation for, presumably, Emma to investigate his possessions.

But Emma wasn't about to be fooled if she could help it. "I only needed the soiled bedding, and then I'll leave." She tugged a blanket loose from the bed and avoided looking at Mr Jones again.

"No…don't. I mean, I'm sorry if I caused offence. I suppose I'm not used to having visitors." Mr Jones followed this statement up with a nervous chuckle, but Emma remained focused on the bed she was stripping and not on the man standing behind her. That fact didn't appear to dissuade Mr Jones from trying to win back her favour and he kept talking. "I can't say as I've ever had so many visitors in one day. First Henry was here talking about being a big brother, and now you…"

Emma turned her head sharply and looked at Mr Jones over her shoulder. "What were you talking to Henry about?"

"He merely wanted my opinion on his suitability as a big brother." Emma found that statement puzzling, and it must have shown in her face, as Mr Jones rushed to elaborate. "He thinks he'll soon be getting a sibling." He finished with a shrug and his eyes dropped down to examine the floor.

Emma gathered up the bedding in her arms and reflected on what Mr Jones had said. She felt a sharp tug of something painful hit her heart but it was superseded quickly by a burst of white-hot anger. "I see it is you who think I am hiding something, Mr Jones."

"I…no…" Mr Jones looked confused but Emma was in no mood to allow him the benefit of the doubt. All the worry she'd been feeling since meeting Mrs Mills merely served to fuel her anger at Mr Jones further. Because, whatever way she chose to look at it, he was the cause of every painful emotion she was experiencing at that moment.

When the words came tumbling out of her they were quick and sharp and aimed right at the person she felt had hurt her the most. "You think that because I have hidden my condition before I would do the same again? That I have come to lumber you with my bastard offspring like some half-wild alley cat sneaking in an unlocked back door to have her kittens by a warm hearth? You think I would be that cruel and calculating, that I would agree to a marriage under false pretences and then proceed to trick you into the same fate? You really think that?"

Emma's heart was pounding and she hugged the bedding to her chest as though the pressure would stop it from doing so. Mr Jones merely watched her, with wide blue eyes full of concern and, when he spoke, his voice was low and even, as though he were talking to an animal he was trying to soothe and reassure.

"No. That is not what I think at all, Mrs Swan. I was…merely trying to keep you informed of Henry's, uh…well. Of what we had been discussing. I thought you might appreciate the chance to understand him a little better." Mr Jones took a step towards her, holding out his hand as though he might stroke her arm, but at the last moment he let it fall to his side instead.

"He was quite plain where his desires lay," Mr Jones continued, his face very close to Emma's and she became painfully aware that there was no way for her to move away from him this time as the bed was behind her.

"We all have things we desire, but which we will never get. And there will be no sibling. Now, I need to get on with my work, Mr Jones." Emma pushed past him in the narrow space of the hut and heard, she thought, a muttered "Emma…" leave his mouth as she did so, but she did not stop or turn back.

She had laundry to attend to, and no time for any further games with Mr Jones. Besides, she was beginning to worry about where her own desires lay, and, until such time as the matter of just how far she could trust Mr Jones was settled, it was better that she leave those thoughts alone.

She would simply continue on with her work and pretend that she hadn't liked it when she thought she could be his friend, rather than just the person who kept the clothes clean.

The laundry was hot, boring, tiring work and, as pleased as Emma felt when she saw the clean items pegged out on her newly-hung washing line, she was soon tired and sore and wished that there was someone else who was willing to take over the chore for a while.

Mr Jones remained out of sight, and Emma was a little glad of that. She was, in all truth, somewhat embarrassed that she may have jumped to conclusions as far as he was concerned. It was a silly mistake to make, and one she knew could cost her later on should he decide to hold it against her.

It was beginning to feel to Emma as though nothing she did worked out for her, at every turn in the tricky path she was trying to navigate in this new life something tripped her up and she fell flat on her face again.

By the time the laundry was finished, scrubbed and rinsed and hung on the line to dry, Emma was feeling more than a little down in the mouth. She was sore from bending over the washtub, hot and sweaty and was certain that she had seen at least one flea jump from the bedding as she carried it around.

She eyed the tub warily. It was large enough to serve as a bathtub, perhaps, although it would be a cramped one. Still, there was no denying the restorative powers of a soak in warm water and, really, at that moment Emma was prepared to take any small comfort she could.

After emptying the tub onto the dry ground, she refilled it with clean hot water and, with a final glance around the yard to assure herself that she was alone, Emma stripped off her now grimy dress and apron, her petticoats and other underthings, her stockings and boots and slipped into the tub.

Once immersed in the water, Emma started to feel a little better. The luxury of hot water, hot water that she may have to heat herself, but which she wouldn't have to share with anyone, was something that she would never grow tired of. She stretched her legs out, well over the edge of the tub, and stared at the horizon over her toes.

Perhaps not everything here, including Mr Jones himself, was as bad as she feared. Perhaps she needed to trust her instincts, the ones that told her he was no great threat, the ones that thought he might, in fact, be the friend she needed. Perhaps she needed to put the words of Mrs Mills out of her head and worry, instead, about Henry's words to Mr Jones.

There was always something to worry about, and that was the problem. How did she know where the real problems were, in this odd place where everything was strange and everyone was a stranger, including the man she'd married?

If nothing else, Emma had seen first-hand how dangerous jumping to conclusions could be. She doubted, very much, that Mr Jones would soon forget the accusations she'd tossed his way. Alley cat was probably the right description for her, lashing out with her claws as soon as she found herself cornered with nowhere to run.

But, determined to enjoy the simple pleasure of her bath, Emma closed her eyes and rested her head against the edge of the tub, shutting out the sunlight and its harsh rays. She was still in this position when she heard the unmistakeable sound of footsteps in the yard behind her.

If anyone had asked her afterwards, it's doubtful that Emma could have clearly articulated what her reasons were for her next actions. She was only aware that it was some kind of test she was setting for Mr Jones to discover whether he was truly to be trusted.

After all, Emma had learned as a girl that it was dangerous when men looked at you, that their gaze was to be avoided at all costs and to invite that very thing was surely an action that would end in disaster. You could very well find yourself powerless in an instant.

But something in that moment made Emma bold and reckless. She stood up and languidly reached for the towel she had placed on the stool next to the tub.

"I'm sorry…I didn't…I didn't mean to disturb you," Mr Jones said, haltingly, from some way behind her.

Emma wrapped the towel around her torso, leaving her shoulders, arms and legs still bare. As she did so, she looked over her shoulder and fixed Mr Jones with an expression she hoped gave very little away. "It's no bother, Mr Jones. I was hardly hiding."

She turned around, still with her feet in the tub, so that she was face-on to Mr Jones. He hadn't come any closer, but he hadn't moved away either.

"I hadn't expected this to be part of the laundry process," he said, still sounding as though he was unsure of what exactly was going on. He may have spoken to her earlier in the day as though she were an animal to be soothed, but now he looked at her as though she were a dangerous creature sent to do him harm.

They stood still and silent for a moment. Mr Jones was watching her warily, clearly not sure what she was offering. Emma wasn't certain herself. She only knew that this was her game and it would all be fine as long as Mr Jones heeded the unspoken rules she didn't really understand herself.

"It's been quite hot work. Plus, I think I found a flea. Or two." She shuddered a little and noticed the way that Mr Jones' eyes travelled down her body and back up again. The odd thing was, at least to Emma's mind, that his gaze did not make her feel any the less powerful.

Quite the opposite in fact.

Mr Jones took a step towards her, and then paused, as if he were trying to ascertain how skittish she was. Emma stepped out of the tub, but did not make any further move. "I suppose a bath would be quite appreciated. Under the circumstances," he said.

"Quite," Emma replied emphatically. "It was most refreshing." She watched as he moved another couple of steps closer. "You know, you are quite welcome to the water if you wish. I'm the only one who's used it."

Mr Jones eyed the tub critically. "I'm not sure I'd fit, lass."

"You could try."

"Aye, perhaps."

Mr Jones seemed to have taken her last words as invitation to close the distance between them. He was now so close that she could see the faint scar on his cheek, watch as the sunlight showed the lighter, reddish whiskers in his beard. So close that she could see the black pupils of his eyes had almost eclipsed the blue surrounding them.

She had seen men look at her with what could only be termed desire before. But this was somehow different, there was something raw in his gaze as though he was showing her what was at the very depths of his heart. It was a little frightening, to be the object of such unbridled wanting.

But it was quite intoxicating all the same.

Emma watched as he ran his tongue along his bottom lip and swallowed, and then his right hand moved to his chest as he began unbuttoning his shirt.

She wondered if she should help him, or if that act would be misconstrued as thinking him helpless. In the end she settled for watching as, one by one, the buttons came free and revealed the skin of his chest, paler than that of his throat, and the dark hair that covered it.

Risking a look at his face Emma saw Mr Jones' gaze fixed intently on her, almost too intently. She moved her eyes back to his chest and saw him slip his suspenders off, before beginning the process of shrugging out of his shirt.

It was complicated, though, by the brace he wore on the end of his left arm, and the shirt became stuck. Without think, Emma reached out a hand to touch it. "Surely you don't bathe with this in place?" she asked, but, just as her fingers were about to make contact with the brace, Mr Jones snatched his arm away from her.

As his arm pulled back and away from her the hook arced upwards and caught Emma's forefinger. She pulled her hand back and examined the finger where there was now a bright red drop of blood.

Mr Jones had stopped trying to remove his shirt and, when Emma lifted her eyes to his face, appeared to be staring at her finger in horror. "It's just blood," she assured him, putting her finger into her mouth to clean it off.

But, clearly, her injury had broken the spell that the two of them had been under. At least as far as Mr Jones was concerned. He mumbled "I'm sorry," and then turned and fled in the direction of the hut.

Emma watched his retreating back feeling what could only be termed regret. If she'd intended to test whether he meant her harm then, perhaps, she had succeeded. But she wasn't entirely certain she liked the price it had come at.

Sighing, she collected her things and headed into the cabin to get dressed. It would be time to go and meet Henry shortly, and there was dinner to prepare after that.

It was just a shame, she thought, that all the chores in the world couldn't keep her mind from revisiting the one thing she'd discovered that afternoon.

Whatever Mr Jones might be to her, Emma, more than ever now, knew what she wanted to be to him.

She just wasn't admitting, not even to herself, where her own desires lay. That mostly what she wanted was for Mr Jones to look at her, once again, like he had that afternoon; like she was all the stars in the sky and moon besides.

It was simply too much to bear thinking about.

**Thanks for reading!**


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